#she’d plague him with visions

[prythianpages]

I saw this hotd tweet and it made me think of Eris…what if he fell for a goth witch who thrived off of chaos and it’s why she lives in Autumn

[mulloey]

a lesson learned • seonghwa

you just can’t seem to stay away from trouble. your husband sets you straight.

request for @89petals

word count: 5.9k

western au, dom husband!seonghwa x innocent sub!reader ft. outlaws!mingi, san & wooyoung.

warnings: angry sex, punishment, impact, degredation, glove kink, mask kink. mentioned whipping & public humiliation. not proofread.

—————

Seonghwa knows you’re naive. It’s not hard to tell; the way you carry yourself, the way you talk, the way you stare so sweetly at him, everything about you exudes innocence, screams vulnerability. And not just to him — he sees it in the eyes of all the men you encounter. It’s obvious, visceral, primal; the desire to touch you, to dirty your pure, unsullied skin with their calloused hands and sweet talking. The longing to be the one to corrupt you. To ruin you. And he knows it’s only him, his protection, standing in their way. Stopping you from falling into one of their traps. Keeping you safe.

He’s tried so hard to make you see it like that; to make you understand. Understand that you need his protection, why you need it; what would happen without it.

But you just don’t get it. No matter how hard he tries, you just don’t understand. He knows it’s partially his fault; he spoils you incessantly, rotten, some would say — though how any man could resist doing so is a mystery he could never untangle. But he’s tried to be harder on you; tried to put his foot down, draw the line and say “this is how it’s going to be.” And it almost works. Each time, he almost gets through to you — almost.

Because then, just as he dares to think he’s won, you look up at him with those wide, doe eyes, a quivering lip as you ask him in your softest voice “why, Seonghwa? Have I been bad?” And he folds. Like any man would, he folds; takes you into his arms, cooing reassurances that you’re never bad, baby, you’re the best girl in the world until he forgets why he was even trying to be strict in the first place. And it works every time. Sly little minx.

Today is one of those days — one of those days where he wishes he had your reins a little tighter, regrets never having followed through and kept you in line. Because today, like so many times before, he doesn’t know where you are. You’d gone out this morning to see your friends, promising to be back soon, but you weren’t. It’s evening now, close to dusk, and with each passing second he grows more worried about you, more frantic to get you home before dark. He’s searched most of town, all your favourite places and usual hangouts, and come up empty. And no one he’s spoken to — all of them familiar with you as the beautiful, innocent wife of the man who runs the town — has seen you since the morning. Where on earth have you gone?

“I’m sorry,” the barkeep says, looking genuinely remorseful — you are, by his own admission, his ‘sweetest customer’ after all. “I truly haven’t seen her, sir. Nor her friends.”

Seonghwa grunts, shaking his head in frustration; it’s starting to hurt now. A stress headache, maybe. “I just don’t know where she could be, Will,” he groans. “I don’t want her out after dark. She’d get into all kinds of trouble with the sorts that come out then.”

The barkeep nods, grim understanding on his face. “I agree, sir. I’m really sorry I can’t help you, but I’m sure she’ll be back soon. She’s a good girl and she loves ya. She won’t have run off.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he mumbles.

Thoughts of all the wrong sorts in the town, visions of how they could have taken you, what they could be doing to you, plague his thoughts, increasing his heart rate so much he barely manages to collapse into a nearby seat in time. The barkeep watches with a worried expression as Seonghwa leans back, breathing laboured as he removes his hat and slams it down on the bare table.

“Heat getting to ya?” He asks. “Don’t be so troubled, sir. She’s done this before, hasn’t she? Bet ya she’s gone after some frog again.”

If the situation weren’t so dire, Seonghwa would laugh at the memory; when you were still his fiancé and, having not seen you the entire day, he’d sent a search party looking for you, only for you to be found just out of bounds with the explanation that you’d “seen a frog” and had followed it so far you’d lost track of where you were. Seonghwa had almost cried with relief then, holding you in his arms as though you’d risen from the dead, but was so angry with you that he barely managed to hold it together until you got back to the house — and when you did, he’d doled out enough consequences to ensure you never made that mistake again. Or so he thought.

“Maybe,” he mumbles. He’s seconds away from calling another search party when a commotion outside draws his attention, as do the familiar voices of the two men in this town he can always trust to cause trouble.

Groaning, he rushes out of the bar, ready to admonish them for causing such a stir — but before he can, his eyes find a familiar face on the back of a familiar white horse. His heart warms at the welcome sight of his missing wife; as his blood pressure rises at the unwelcome sight of who you’d been with.

You stare at him with love and unease — happy to see him but no doubt aware of the trouble you’re in. You bite your lip, swallowing thickly as you dismount. Too nervous to approach him, you hesitate, lingering behind the men you’d ridden with.

“So this is who you meant by ‘friends’,” Seonghwa says as coolly as he can manage. “Mingi, San and…” He squints, not recognising the man next to them. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Wooyoung, sir,” the man grins, waving cheerfully. The man next to him, Mingi, snorts amusedly. Seonghwa almost lunges.

“Wooyoung,” he repeats. He knows he’s sneering as he says his name; sounding it out like it’s something shameful, but if Wooyoung is offended, he doesn’t say anything. The others have clearly told him who Seonghwa is, and the control he has of everything in this world town. Especially the girl they’d taken out, apparently without his permission.

“Did you have fun with my wife, Wooyoung?” He asks. “And you two? Did you have fun too?”

“Nothing improper happened, Seonghwa,” Mingi says coolly. “She wanted to go for a ride and we took her.”

“I’m sure,” Seonghwa replies darkly. Mingi at least has the decency to look a little uneasy, knowing Seonghwa could get him in a lot more trouble than he’d like. Not wanting to bother with the outlaws anymore, he turns his gaze back to you, eyes narrowing. “Come here.”

He watches you silently as you approach him, feeling your nerves with each step. He’s sure you’re half expecting him to strike you in front of everyone — even strip you down and punish you right here. But he’d never do that — instead, when you finally reach him, he pulls you into a tight, crushing hug. Tears prickle at his eyes as he inhales your scent, that sweet, perfect scent he was starting to wonder if he’d smell again. “I was so fucking worried about you,” he whispers into your hair. “My sweet little girl.”

You sigh contentedly into his chest for a moment until he abruptly pulls back, eyes narrowing as he regards the crowd that’s formed around you. “Everyone go home,” he orders. “Mingi, San, get out of here and take the boy with you. We’re leaving.”

He doesn’t wait for people to obey — just grabs your hand and drags you over to where he’d tied his horse. You try to speak but he ignores you; he lifts you up and onto the horse without a word, ignoring your protests as he steadies you before jumping up himself. “Hold my waist,” he says. Finally having some sense, you obey, saying nothing as you ride to his home on the hill — looming above the town and reminding you just who you’re dealing with.

When you arrive he lifts you off the horse, his grip on your waist harsher than usual as he plants you on the ground. He hands the reins to a waiting servant, who leads the horse away, leaving you alone with your husband. He doesn’t look at you, just orders you into the house with a stern tone. As you turn to walk towards the door he lands a harsh slap against your ass; with your layers of skirts and undergarments you should barely feel it, but Seonghwa is so strong and so angry that it’s as painful as if he had lifted up your skirts and smacked your bare skin. You squeak, losing your balance slightly before regaining it and rushing towards the door. It’s open, you assume unlocked by the servant as he’d seen your horse approaching, allowing you to slip inside and out of the desert sun.

You’re crouched down and unlacing your boots when you hear the door open and close again, and you hardly have time to register the presence behind you when it grabs a fistful of your hair, forcing you to your feet.

“Seonghwa!” You protest, flailing in his painful grip. A low noise emanates from his throat, almost a growl, and before you know what’s happened he’s landed a harsh, stinging slip on your cheek. Your jaw drops and you gape at him, staggering back when he loosens his grip. You can scarcely believe what’s just happened, what he’s just done — he’s struck you before, certainly, but never out of anger and never on the face.

“You need a fucking attitude adjustment,” he growls. His voice is deeper than you knew it could even get and he sounds downright dangerous. “I’ve been too lenient for too long.”

You whine, staring at him with your trademark eyes but this time he doesn’t react — doesn’t falter, doesn’t soften, doesn’t give in or give way to you. Your heart skips a beat at the realisation — he’s not falling for it this time. “Seonghwa, I’m sorr—”

“No, little girl,” he interjects. You swallow, bile in your threat. He really has no patience for you now. “You listen to me,” he says. “I’ve tried so hard to help you understand the dangers of this town but you just won’t listen.” He grabs you again, this time by the neck but doesn’t apply much pressure. Not that he needs to; you’ve always been putty in his hands. Now with no choice but to look at him, you see the fire in his eyes, the blazing spark — you’ve provoked him. Set him ablaze. You’re going to get burned. “Clearly,” he says, “I need to make you understand.”

You’re silent for a moment, letting his words hang in the air as you digest them. Your mouth opens and closes a couple times until you can finally force out a single syllable. “How?”

He chuckles; a dry, humourless chuckle that scratches at your throat. His eyes flicker up and down as he takes you in, admiring the body he owns and imagining what he could do to it. He bites his lip, not quite drawing blood but still hard and affected. “By showing you the dangers,” he says.

He releases you, sending you stumbling backwards again. He eyes you carefully, chuckling when he sees that one of your shoes is still on your feet. “Take that off,” he says, pointing to it. “Quickly.”

Nodding, you scramble to obey; you’re so nervous that your hands are shaking, making it hard to undo the tight laces of your boots, but you manage — perhaps due to the sharp, watching eyes you feel on you the entire time. You stand back up, feeling exposed now even though you’re fully clothed. Unsure what to say, you wait for him to speak; it seems to please him. “Go to our room,” he says. “Wait for me on the bed while I fetch a few things. You’re going to learn a good lesson tonight, sweetheart.”

Ignoring the terrifying undertones of his words, you turn on your heel, scrambling up the rickety wooden staircase; the steps creak under the pressure but you don’t doubt they can support your weight — Seonghwa built this house with his own two hands, and he knows what he’s doing; above all, he’d never do anything to put you in danger, through negligence or otherwise.

Reaching the top floor you scurry quietly down the hallway, pushing open the door to your shared bedroom and closing it softly behind you. Unsure what to do with Seonghwa’s vague instructions, you elect to keep your clothes on — he’d never told you to remove them, after all — and chance your luck that he may see fit to inflict whatever punishment he has in mind over your garments. After all, if he’s gone to fetch the riding crop, which is usually what he means when he ‘fetches something’ before a punishment, it’s not like your clothes would hinder the effectiveness of his discipline — as a renowned horseman, Seonghwa is more than capable with a riding crop, and would certainly be able to bruise, perhaps even cut you through your clothes. Not that he would cut you — but he could. Even his hands can inflict a world of damage.

Minutes later you hear the telling sounds of creaking on the staircase; as the footsteps get closer you recognise them as Seonghwa and you swallow, shifting uneasily on the bed. You wonder what he’s going to do to you — what he meant by “showing you the danger”. You trust him with your life but the fact remains that you live far from the rest of the town, so if something did happen, your screams would almost certainly go unheard — in fact, you know they would. It’s something you’ve both enjoyed and certainly made the most of before, but if he decided to use it for some other purpose, you’d be in trouble.

Minutes later the door opens to reveal him standing in the doorway, still in his brimmed hat and long leather coat and you shudder — even after five years of marriage, the mere silhouette of Seonghwa still intimidates you. When he steps out of the shadow you blink for a moment, confused. Seonghwa hasn’t fetched the riding crop, instead gathering an armful of ropes— but that’s not what catches your attention. What catches your attention is the thick cloth pulled over Seonghwa’s mouth and nose, fashioned into a mask. Paired with his hat it conceals his face almost entirely and makes him an utterly menacing figure.

He takes a step inside, spurs clinking against his boots as he walks. It’s not a sound you often hear inside, and it feels more threatening than familiar. You gulp, shifting back slightly but not enough to be out of his reach — you’re smarter than that.

He stares down at you for a moment, taking you in and scrutinising you, before that familiar voice sounds out, deeper and more menacing than ever.

“Since you think it’s so funny to run off with strange men,” he says, a little muffled through the mask but still painfully clear. “Men I’ve specifically warned you about, and you’ve refused to listen…” You hang your head, ashamed, but through hooded eyes still stare curiously at the sight in front of you. “I’m going to show you exactly why I told you to stay away from them in the first place.”

You drop your gaze, staring down at the wooden floorboards with a racing heartbeat. He clicks his tongue. “Look at me.”

You find obeying isn’t as easy as it should be — the sight of him now is overwhelming, and something about the way he towers over you, face hidden, intentions concealed… it flusters you. You want to blush and giggle and run far, far away.

He comes closer again, reaching to grip your chin and the moment his hand meets your face an electrifying feeling races through you. His voice is gruff when he speaks, eyes boring into yours. “I’m going to show you what bad men can do,” he says. “What they’d do to you if they could.”

His grip tightens, holding you still; the pressure of his fingers is bruising, painful against your skin and he knows it. His eyes flicker across your chest, peeking out of the top of your dress. They narrow slightly, stern and scrutinising but the pupils are dilated. “Was that like this when you left this morning?”

You look down for a moment, holding back a smile when you see what he’s asking. “You mean were my breasts so visible?” You ask.

“Yes.”

You giggle slightly and he tightens his grip again, forcing the smile off your face. You whine. “They weren’t,” you insist. “My dress slipped a little as I came up the stairs.”

He stares at you a moment, probably trying to decide if he believes you. He clicks his tongue. “I hope you’re right. And I certainly hope Mingi would agree with that assessment, should I happen across him tomorrow.”

“He would,” you reply. “I swear, Hwa.” You feel tears prickle at your eyes as you stare desperately at him, trying to convince him — among other things. You see the conflict on his face as he watches your display.

Usually, now would be the time where he’d give in — when you give him those eyes and promise so sweetly that to be a good girl for him. ‘Hwa’ doesn’t help either; you know that name is his kryptonite. But this time he doesn’t fold; doesn’t give in like he always does. He can’t. He doesn’t want to. Because while before, your sweet disposition and cute, childish antics, made him want to squish your cheeks and give you everything you could possibly want, now it makes him want to ruin you. To watch you fall apart beneath him; to tarnish your pure, clean soul the way he’s been trying to tell you the other men in the town are so desperate to. No, you’re not getting out of this today. He’s going to break you down and ruin you and then maybe you’ll learn.

He releases your chin, noticing with a smile the deep red marks left by the imprints of his fingers. “Strip,” he orders. “And do it quickly. ‘Cause I have to take that pretty little dress off myself, there won’t be much left of it when I’m done.”

You know he’s not bluffing this time — a number of your dresses have been ruined in this way; torn off in the heat of passion by your hungry, or angry, husband. Standing, you hurry to obey, removing your corset and skirts until you’re down to your underwear. Your gaze flickers to him, unsure. He nods, a silent order and you gulp as you remove your underwear; the last, thin pieces of fabrics protecting your modesty. Now fully nude, next to your husband who hasn’t even removed his shoes, you feel vulnerable and exposed in a way you’re not sure if you like. He stares at you for a moment and the mask prevents you from gauging his reaction. You stand nervously, resisting the urge to try to cover yourself; it wouldn’t work, first of all, and would only anger him further. He clicks his tongue. “Turn around.”

Nodding, you turn slowly to face the bed. His presence behind you is a looming, inescapable feeling even before he touches you; he runs a finger across your ass, inspecting the tender flesh. He makes a noise somewhere between pity and arousal and you realise you’re probably still sporting the marks from when he’d corrected you last; a painful, bruising correction that had left you crying and begging his forgiveness — and for something much lesser than this, you recall. You gulp as you realise he probably has much worse planned for you today.

“Gosh,” he says, almost whispering. He applies a gentle pressure to one of the marks; a bruise, by the feel of it — not enough pressure to truly hurt, but just enough to remind you that the bruise is there and why. “You just can’t behave, can you, my girl?”

A whine escapes, face pink with embarrassment at his patronising, humiliating tone but you don’t dare move — you know better. “I’m sorry, Hwa,” you whisper. When you say that name this time, he can tell it’s not a tactic or charm — you truly are sorry, and you truly want to be good. He smiles proudly at the thought. His sweet girl.

“I’ve really been too lenient, have I?” He says. Knowing you can’t see it, he doesn’t bother hiding the affectionate smile on his face. “Don’t worry, baby. That ends today.”

You gulp, nodding your assent and for a moment it seems nothing’s happening — until a strong hand on your back pushing you forwards, forcing you to bend over the bed. You make a noise of surprise, not having expected the movement, but you stay still. He stands and takes you in for a moment before his hands are on you, running down your sides with more tenderness than you expected. But that doesn’t last for long; when he reaches your ass he winds his hand back, and you hear the smack he inflicts on the bruised skin coming even before it lands. When it does, it takes a second for the pain to register; it blooms across your sensitive skin, white-hot and agonising. You cry out but have the good sense to do it into the blankets, muffling the noise. He lands another slap on the same spot, then another, ignoring your cries and apologies. After ten or so smacks he seems to get bored, backing away from you, and you realise with as much relief as fear that he doesn’t intend on beating you tonight — at least, not as your main punishment. Which means your main punishment is something else, and you have a feeling it won’t be a whole lot more lenient.

He returns quickly, grabbing a fistful of your hair in one hand while the other holds you down by your waist. “Did you like that?” He asks, voice rasped.

You shake your head, still sobbing slightly. “No, Seonghwa.”

“Good.” His hand moves from your waist to your ass, tightly gripping the spot he’d victimised — no doubt red and swollen thanks to his efforts. You cry out, dizzy with pain. “You shouldn’t like it,” he says, emphasising his point with a squeeze that almost makes you black out. “That way you’ll finally fucking learn.”

You nod, groaning at the lingering pain that persists even after he loosens his grip. He makes a noise almost like a snarl.

“Tell me, baby,” he says softly. “Do you think Mingi would make love to you?” He pulls at your hair slightly, just enough pressure to sting. You gulp. “You think San would stop if it got too much?” His hand moves down, gripping the supple skin of your upper thigh.

You bite your lip, unsure of how to answer — the outlaws Seonghwa hates so much have actually been nice to you so far, though he of course claims it’s only to piss him off. But you know what he wants to hear and you want to be good — you want him to be merciful. “No, Seonghwa,” you gasp, though it comes out as more of a whine. You’re painfully aware of his hand on the back of your thigh, squeezing at the skin and refusing to relieve or indulge you beyond that. “They wouldn’t.”

“That’s right,” he growls. “So neither will I.”

You hear shuffling behind you before something touches your arm — but it’s not Seonghwa’s soft yet rough hands. It’s harder, thicker, a little scratchy… it’s the rope. You gasp, breath hitching as he wraps the rope carefully around your arms, tying them together against your back. He leans down to whisper in your ear, “Your safeword is ‘pickles’. Remember it.”

You giggle at the choice of safeword — pickles is your horse, white and grey and beautiful and certainly an unforgettable safeword. “Okay,” you whisper.

He chuckles, moving away behind you. Craning your neck, you see him removing the hat, coat and boots — undoubtedly bothersome particularly when he’s trying to educate you. But the mask stays, and you watch as he pulls on a pair of thick, leather gloves. You swallow — he never wears those gloves with you; they’re the gloves he wears when, as the de-facto leader of the town, he deals with outlaws and criminals and anyone who causes problems — anyone he’d rather not touch. Just by putting them on in front of you he’s shown you his anger; your place. You’re dirt to him now.

When he returns to you he wastes no time; he places a leg on each side of you, holding you in place and putting him closer to where he wants to be. The feeling of his leather gloves on your skin sends shivers down your spine for a multitude of reasons but you do your best to stay still and pliant. They run across your skin, coming to hold onto your waist, squeezing it softly before suddenly they’re on your ass, grabbing your cheeks and spreading them apart — exposing you fully to him.

Without realising you shrink into yourself slightly, trying to make yourself smaller — avoid the embarrassment and humiliation of having everything on slow. He chuckles, gripping you tighter as he spits down. The saliva lands between your two holes and with one large finger he rubs up and down, spreading the spit between them. You shiver as his finger ghosts across your sensitive pussy and even more sensitive asshole, coating them with spit. But you can't do much more than shiver; the grip of his other hand on your is iron and immobilising, and you know from experience that if you make things difficult for him, Seonghwa has no qualms with striking your pussy almost as hard as he does your ass, and you don’t want to find out if he’d have any qualms about doing that to your other hole. You can’t even imagine how that would feel.

“How do you feel?” He asks, not sounding incredibly concerned with the answer. “Are you embarrassed, baby? Your holes spat on like you’re some cheap saloon girl?”

You whine and, forgetting your situation, try to reach for him — for comfort or reprieve, you don’t know. It’s only when the rope bites into your arms as you strain against them that you remember what he’d done — how he’d tied you up like a mare. “I’m embarrassed, Hwa.”

“Good,” he says, and you hear the smile in his voice. “Be embarrassed. But tell me this, honey. If those outlaws you like so much finally got their hands on you — do you think they’d use spit? Do you think they’d use anything to make it easier for you?”

“I don’t know,” you gasp.

He laughs dryly. “No, they wouldn’t,” he says. “They’d tear you open, baby. And it’d be even worse than this.”

He doesn’t give your time to react before he plunges not one but two fingers into your sensitive hole, making you choke — the thick leather coating his fingers makes them even bigger and harder to take and you feel like you’re on fire; not the mention the disbelief that your temperate, if a little severe husband, is treating you like this. You thrash in his hold but it’s no use; he only gives you a few seconds to adjust before he starts pumping in and out of you, stretching you even further. It feels good but it’s so, so much. You don’t know what to do or how to take it and the stupid rope around your arms means you can’t even hold onto him. He hums. “Must be hard, huh? Taking my fingers like that?”

“It is.”

“It should be. This is how you wanted to be treated, right? That must be why you love those outlaws so much. Because this is what you really wanted. To be treated as the cheap slut they see you as, yeah?”

You’re rutting desperately against the bed now, trying to get any kind of friction Seonghwa’s immobilising grip allows and maybe it’s because he knows he’s pushing you so hard — or perhaps he likes seeing you so desperate and pathetic — that he doesn’t stop you. The moment you’re sufficiently stretched a third gloved finger invades you and didn’t even know you could be this stretched without his dick. You’re sobbing now; tears smearing against the thin blankets as you shake beneath his hold. He chuckles; “tell me it feels good,” he says.

“It fee— God, it feels so good Hwa,” you cry, so loud it hurts your throat and rings in your ears. He laughs, hooking a hand under your waist to lift you up slightly, angling you so your holes are even more exposed and he can go even deeper. Your screams fall on deaf ears — as they probably will for the rest of the night.

“Good girl,” Seonghwa praises, and it eases your pain for a moment before it’s back in full force as he increases his pace. “I reckon you’re learning your lesson, aren’t you?”

You sob into the blankets, nodding fervently — you certainly are learning, though you’re not sure if it’s the pain or the pleasure that’s reaching you. But your sweet husband is gone tonight, replaced with an animal — and it’s not one you want to provoke again. “Yes, Hwa.”

“Good. ‘Cause if I have to teach it again, I’m not waiting to get you somewhere private. Understood?”

“Yes, Hwa,” you groan.

“Good.” He pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty and gaping. You feel your wetness begin to trickle down your leg and he traces it with his finger, gathering the juices. He grabs your hair again, yanking it backwards to pull your head towards him. “Open up.”

You let your mouth fall open uncertainly and he shoves his fingers inside, making you gag. “Suck,” he orders and you do; swirling your tongue across his juice-coated fingers as you suckle desperately at them. “Taste good?” He asks and you nod — you do taste good. Sweet, even. You’re quite proud of it — but that doesn’t make this any less humiliating.

“Good,” he says, pulling his fingers out and moving to grip your waist. “I’m gonna fuck you now. Think you can take it?”

You bite your lip, pondering your answer. “It doesn— it doesn’t matter,” you say softly, knowing what he wants to hear.

“Good answer, baby,” he chuckles. “Fuck, you’re not so dumb after all, are you?”

You shake your head, flushing a little at the condescending undertones of his words and you hear him exhale a stuttered breath. You know he’s as pent up as you are now — you don’t know what he’s going to do with it. “Hwa…”

“I’m here, baby,” he says. “Hwa’s gonna fuck you now. Not gonna be gentle, either. What’s your safeword?”

You sniffle. “Pickles.”

“Good girl,” he says, smoothing a hand across your flushed skin. You notice he’s pulled the gloves off now and you’ve never been so grateful to feel his bare skin on yours; but knowing what he’s taken them off for, what he plans to do to you, doesn’t allow you much comfort from it. “Remember that. There���s a good chance you’ll need it.”

He pulls back and for a long, unending moment, he’s gone from your sight and touch. Anticipation hangs in the air as you await his return; tension and arousal combined and lingering as the seconds pass slowly and fearfully. You squirm slightly, desperate for sensation and hoping he’ll notice, until he returns. Two large hands grip your ass, spreading the cheeks apart again. You hear him spit again, feel the saliva as it lands and smears across your pussy before you feel that familiar stretch as his thick, hard cock begins to penetrate you. He takes his sweet time inserting himself, dragging it out and it’s as much a mercy as it is a torture. When he’s finally in, your still-tight pussy only just withstanding it, he starts to move — slowly at first, then faster and faster until he’s at his full speed and power. He’s never gotten there so fast or so ruthlessly and as good as it feels, you know you’re at the edge of what you can take.

So does he — his grip on you is iron and unyielding, surely bruising you further as he uses your fragile frame to allow and force himself deeper into you. You know you’re crying; sobbing and calling his name with each movement and you think he’s saying something to you, but among all the feelings and sensations and the ever-present stretch that pulls and forces you open, the exact words he says don’t quite reach you. He’s never fucked you like this — fast and hard and without consideration for your pleasure and you feel like a toy, an object; existing only to service him. You know that’s his point — that to others, you are an object, and they’d never take as good care of you as he does. And for the first time you’re really starting to understand the truth of his warnings; as fast and intense as this is, there's still love and care hidden deep, deep beneath it. If you let those outlaws get anywhere near you, it’ll be a lot, lot worse.

As he approaches his orgasm you’re certain you’ve bitten through your lip; the taste of iron fills your mouth, your shown body strained and breaking under the enormous pressure of Seonghwa’s exertions of it. When he finally comes it’s louder, harder, deeper than he’s ever been and you quickly find yourself coming too; orgasm forced out of you by the sheer force of his own. You know you’re sobbing as you come down, heart still pounding against your skull, permeating every inch of you and Seonghwa stays still for a moment, dick softening but still deep inside you before he finally pulls out with a groan. You feel liquid pour from your hole as he does so; his cum and your juices rushing down your thigh and you hear him chuckle.

“Dirty girl,” he muses. He gathers it on his fingers again, this time placing them into his mouth, tasting the mixture of your juices and his and he makes a noise of appreciation. “Delicious, baby.”

When you start to whine again he’s quick to gather you up, skillfully untying your arms before pulling you into his hold. He situates himself in bed, back against the pillow as he holds you against his chest, rocking you back and forth. He’s patient as he waits for you to come down and back to earth, greeting you with a fond smile when you finally open your eyes, staring up at him as lovingly as you always do. He pinches your cheek, cooing at you as he speaks. “That was incredible, baby,” he says. “How do you feel?”

Your breathing is still staggered, voice soft and raspy as you answer. “Feel fine, Seonghwa.”

“Good,” he smiles. “You gonna run around with outlaws again, baby?”

You sniff, shaking your head and nuzzling further into his touch. “No.”

“I’m glad,” he says. “Because I’d so hate to have to fuck you like that again.”

You hold back a chuckle, sighing in his hold. You know he’s lying — and when you whisper back, “So would I, Hwa,” you both know you’re lying too.

—————

thanks for reading! reblog and comment if you enjoyed. requests are open!🖤🖤🖤

[that-student-that-has-homework]

Gentle Reciprocity

Al-Haitham x Reader

cw: allusions to neurodivergent overstimulation

“Hello there darling,” he sees the amused twinkle in your eyes and already knows he’s in for a treat, “would you like some assistance?”

With how it was phrased it could be pointed at either him or his assailant. However he was well aware that adage was for him and not the persistent presence that plagued his side.

“While I’d rather not trouble you,” his amusement pulled at the corner of his lips, “seeing as you’re already here…”

“I might as well?” You chuckled.

His entertainment only increased at the confusion clearly written upon the foreign young lady’s face. She was likely trying to piece together what your interaction meant. Though she probably had an inkling and would now have to confirm it.

“Uh, do you two know each other?” She pulled away from him slightly.

“We do,” you nodded, humming in confirmation, “rather well, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” he nodded, removing his arm from the lady’s grasp, “intimately well.”

You could see her working to process what was going on based off of your layered conversation with your beloved. Meanwhile you were relieved of half of the load of groceries you’d been carrying prior to approaching the two.

“He’s my husband, sweetheart,” you decided not to toy with her any further, “his lack of interest isn’t anything personal,” you tried to console her, “part of the reason I married him is his integrity.”

She looked so confused, staring between the two of you and then to your hands. Her brow furrowed and her lips pursed as her tongue translated her confusion, “but he’s not wearing a ring.”

At which point you turn to his hand, a little smile gracing your lips, and shoot him a glance filled with mirth at the state of his finger. He appreciates your grace towards him. After all, he was wearing his ring, under his glove.

“You can see my wife’s ring though, can’t you?” He raised an eyebrow at his stunned pursuer. 

“That confirms that she’s married,” she argued, “it says nothing about you.”

“What woman would risk the tranquility of her marriage to help a fully grown man ward off unwanted attention?” He argued back.

“One that isn’t happy in her marriage and wants the man she’s helping out.”

“You know habibi, that is a plausible argument,” you turned to him intrigued.

He was about to rebut when you took the words out of his mouth, “but in that case. He wouldn’t cooperate with me, because he knows I’m married to someone else.”

“Unless you were having an affair!”

“In which case that would mean that I am still involved with a woman and uninterested in you,” Al-Haitham caught her on her argument, “you’re doing a horrible job of seducing me with these accusations, which is what I assume is your goal.”

“Accusations?” Ooh. She had gotten so carried away by the argument she’d gone into the rhetorical realm.

“You accused both of us of infidelity,”  your husband gestured between you and himself.

“What? No! I just-urgh,” she fumbled over her words, “sorry.”

“Apologize to my wife as well.”

Your husband’s assailant gave him a very unimpressed stare, before letting out a huff that caused her whole body to deflate. She turned to you, looking defeated, “sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” you nodded, your lips gently curving upwards, “take care and have a nice rest of your day.”

Again looking between the two of you, she nodded meekly and trudged away in complete and utter defeat. You hoped you hadn’t completely broken her spirit. After all, she was under the impression that the man she was approaching was available.

You weren’t able to worry long as something moved in your peripheral vision, pulling your attention towards it. Turns out Al-Haitham was turning his sound-canceling ear pieces back on. Ah. Understandable.

You lightly hooked your pinky in his before sliding it out, a quiet invitation. Glancing up at him you were met with his own tired gaze. You probably shouldn’t have entertained her arguments for too long, your love seemed to have had just about enough today. 

“Let’s go home,” you spoke nodding your head in the direction back to your shared abode.

You were treated to a little nod, your husband slipping his hand into your free one and hurrying down the street. Over time you’d gotten good at keeping up with his long strides, and he had gotten good at maintaining a pace that didn’t require you to sprint. You still had to hurry this time around though.

There was a kind of relief that came with arriving at your shared abode. You took care of locking the door, and then headed to the kitchen to put the groceries away while he headed into your room. You’d just about finished putting things away and were wondering what you could make for dinner when you sensed you weren’t alone in the kitchen anymore.

Without turning around fully, you began placating your husband, “don’t worry about food and just-”

You were cut off by Al-Haitham’s sudden embrace, his head coming to rest on your shoulder, his nose poking at your neck. Relaxing into him, you placed a hand above the ones that sat atop one another on your abdomen, languidly stroking at his skin. Seems he’d taken his gloves off.

Given he had sought you out, it seemed he was okay with you touching him in his current state. You reached your other hand up to tenderly trace his scalp. You stood there quietly, him taking deep, calming breaths, and you playing with his hair. After a bit, your husband’s weight, for lack of a better term, weighed down on you, and you could feel the fatigue in your legs.

“Can we take a seat, love?” You hummed, taking care to keep your voice quiet and light.

“I’d prefer we lay down,” his rich timbre reverberated through your bones.

“Laying down it is then,” you agreed.

You were gingerly pulled by the hand towards your room, and towards your shared bed. You smiled at the thought. You’d originally started off in separate rooms with separate beds, but look at you now. Al-Haitham allowed you a moment to close the door, careful to make too much noise, before pulling you to your bed. Within a moment he was curled into you, his head tucked into your shoulder and his arms around your middle.

It was a little more difficult to play with his hair from this position, so you absentmindedly began  playing with the wedding band that sat proudly on his finger. When you came back to your senses you paused. He was already overwhelmed and trying to ground himself, you didn’t need to introduce any unwanted stimuli.

“You can keep playing with our ring,” he mumbled, “I don’t mind,” he tightened his hold on you, “and I know it helps you stay calm.”

“Thanks,” you resumed your previous fiddling, “love you.”

“Love you too.”

You couldn’t help the way your features curled into a deep appreciation. You loved hearing those words from him, but in your current state it was redundant.

After all, he was allowing you to be near him in his volatile state, and it was an honor you cherished.

//----------

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//----------

What was your favorite part? Also please let me know if I got the neurodivergent thing right. I can't claim to be neurodivergent (no matter how relatable some memes are)

[impala-dreamer]

In The Arms of Sleep

A Supernatural Story

~ Death has been hunting him, turning every moment into a painful dream of blood and pain. His only hope for a moment's rest lies in her arms...~

Dean Winchester x F!Reader

2,985 Words

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of death and show level blood, Allusions to sex. Set right before the series finale. | Originally Published to Patreon 9/11/2023

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

He probably should have called first.

Probably should have at least texted.

It was too late now though.

She’d just have to deal with it.

The highway stretched out before him, undulating and twisting like so many tentacles of some viscous midnight monster. Black and unforgiving; poised to devour him should he jerk the wheel in the wrong way at the wrong moment.

Suddenly, the thought of a crash crossed his mind and he couldn’t break away from it. How many miles had he driven in his life? How many times had he transverse the country, weaving back and forth across the yellow lines; crossing state borders without a second thought. Impossible to count. And yet- he’d been in so few accidents that it was almost comical. It was statistically impossible that he hadn’t careened off a cliff in New England and plummeted into the icy waters of the Atlantic, or been mesmerized by a heat mirage outside of Phoenix and missed a turn, crashing into the rocks, his last moments spent hearing the sickening crunch of metal and bone.

For a moment, he saw himself, half alive and wheezing, chest punctured by the wreck of the steering wheel; both legs broken, face shredded and bleeding as he crawled from a mess of black steel. The Impala crumpled, smoke billowing from beneath the hood while fluids mixed on the blacktop below. He clawed at the dirt, nails breaking painfully as he struggled to pull himself from the rubble. Each movement sent white-hot pain through his body, but he kept going, desperate to save himself as flames licked at the upholstery, turning the slick, shining chrome to blazing orange.

Shaking himself, Dean cleared the vision from his mind and shifted in his seat. The soft leather cradled him perfectly and he sank into it a bit, letting himself relax even as he tightened his grip on the wheel.

Things like that had been happening more and more. Nightmares were common in his life, but bloody daydreams were a new phenomenon. They often came out of nowhere too, making it almost impossible to stay calm and on task. One moment, he was playing on his phone or fixing dinner, and the next, he was watching as bullets tore through his chest, blood erupting from the punctures in slow motion cascades of crimson. More often, it was some monster attack, something easy that he could handle on his own that caught him. He’d turn a corner in a farmhouse and be ripped apart by massive talons, feasted upon by wolves, drained by an earth-covered vampire.

Every moment now, he saw his death. Every breath he took sent images of the end into his mind. He was plagued by the sights, haunted by the feeling, exhausted and helpless. Despite his best efforts at drinking the scenes away, the whiskey only made things worse. He’d tried talking about it, but it sounded insane. Tried writing them down, but he wasn’t good with words, couldn’t get the emotions right, couldn’t describe the anxiety. Hell, he’d even tried meditating, but that only proved to make the thoughts more vivid and devastating.

He needed something that he couldn’t find back at home.

Needed something he knew would soothe him, even if only for one night.

He needed Y/N.

So, he drove. Miles and miles, wheels spinning so fast that human eyes couldn’t see the treds turning, gripping, biting at the roads. So fast that it felt as if the car would leave the blacktop and float on the wind, fly him right to her front door.

He wasn’t so lucky.

He drove through the day and deep into the night, stopping only for gas in Oklahoma and then to take a piss a few hours later. Landscapes changed outside the windows, trees growing tall and full; the earth deepening from deep yellow to rich green. The world outside passed by, but he couldn’t see it. All he could see was blood.

A little after two in the morning, he reached her street. The little blue house was set back a bit from the road, tall bushes fencing in a modest lawn. She’d inherited the property when her parents were killed; the same time she’d met Dean.

He’d saved her life that night, and many more times, she’d done the same for him. Whether she knew it or not, she was always on his mind.

Dean slowly slid into the empty space in front of her house and cut the engine. He switched off the headlights and peered up at the front left window. Her light was off; the house dark and quiet.

He should have called first.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes for a moment and considered leaving. He could drive back straight away and be home before Sam got to worrying or Miracle missed him too much and chewed up his slippers. He fingered the ignition key, running his thumb across the dull ridges, ready to jam it back into its place.

He took a breath and a muzzle flare ignited in his head; the silenced gun taking him down with a shot perfectly executed right between his eyes. He jumped and willed the vision to dissipate, but it refused, growing brighter as his soul darkened.

A light flipped on in the window above and Dean’s heart jolted out of rhythm.

He made it to the front door just as she pulled it open and green eyes flooded with tears.

“Dean?”

Her voice was like a balm to his aching soul and he slumped forward into her outstretched arms.

“I heard the car,” she whispered, chin digging into the crook of his neck. “I thought I was dreaming.”

Dean clasped his arms around her back and held on, refusing despite the cold night air that swirled around them, to let her go and follow her inside. He needed a moment. Needed to lay his troubles down before crossing the threshold.

“Not dreaming,” he answered in a sigh. “But I may be.”

She smiled and placed a hand on the back of his neck, holding him to her. “You OK?”

He laughed bitterly, body shaking against her. “Not even a little.”

Y/N pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. The green was darker than she remembered, his soul burdened with so much pain that the color was fading, growing deeper than the evergreens that lined the back of her property. She lay her hand softly against his cheek and his eyes fluttered shut. He leaned into the touch, desperate for any human connection, desperate for her. He took a choppy breath and set his jaw tight. She felt the muscles flex beneath her palm, and she pressed her fingertips into the side of his face, giving him something real to feel.

“Hey…”

Her voice was calm and sweet, hiding the worry in her heart. Dean’s lashes lifted and he looked down into her eyes. She smiled.

“You’re gonna be OK.”

He wanted to believe it, needed to put his faith in her words, but blood was dripping from the deep, imagined gashes in his mind, puddling at his feet, flooding the concrete steps.

Subtly, he shook his head. “I dunno about that.” He tried to smile, to sprinkle in a bit of Winchester charm, but he had none left. He closed his eyes again and once more, the sight of his flayed body floated by, and he shivered.

Y/N’s fingers tensed, her middle finger pushing lightly against his temple. “Dean…”

He opened his heart, but not his eyes. “Y/N, please-”  His voice cracked around her name; pathetic and spent.

Y/N’s hand slid from his cheek to his hand, closing around it and pulling him along as she turned.

They didn’t speak. The only sound in the darkness was the door closing behind them and his boots hitting the old hardwood floor. The white pine planks were thin and long, stretching out down a hallway that barely seemed familiar to him. She had painted since last he’d been there, but it was too dark to see the shade of green she’d chosen.

Y/N held his hand and walked straight down the hallway and to the left. If memory served him, it was her bedroom- a small rectangular room with a big antique brass bed pushed into the corner and hand painted art on the walls. She flipped the light switch and a dim lamp by the bed turned on. It did little to illuminate the room, but it was enough to guide them across the thick carpet.

She stopped by the side of the bed and turned to him.

“Boots off,” she said firmly.

Dean’s forehead creased in question. “Huh?”

She sighed and nodded to his feet. “You’re not getting into my bed with those filthy boots on.”

He drew his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down hard. He wanted nothing more than to slide into her arms, but something was blocking his movements. A strange tightness grew in his chest, spreading outward like clinging ivy. His throat closed, his breathing quickened. Tears welled, but he refused to let them fall.

Slowly, Y/N lifted her hands to slide the canvas jacket from his shoulders. “Relax,” she whispered, tugging the fabric off his thick arms. Carefully, she folded it in half and laid it on the corner of her bed. The army green popped against the pale rose comforter and Dean set his gaze upon the contrast, desperate to hold onto it and push the phantom blood aside.

He let her pull off his flannel; open his belt. When she reached for the hem of his gray tee, his hands shot around her wrists.

He shook his head. “Y/N…”

She smiled softly. “Let me.”

His grip released and she lifted the cotton up over his head. He sighed deeply as the sweaty shirt caressed his cheeks and he emerged with half a smile.

The room was cool. A vent in the floor to his right pushed a light breeze into the air and it chilled his exposed skin. It felt good.

Y/N tried not to linger too long over his naked chest, tried to ignore his soft belly, the dip that lay across his broad shoulders. Unconsciously, she lifted her hand to cover the ink on his chest, the same design he’d insisted she get tattooed on her hip. They were connected in that strange way, and sometimes she wondered if he could feel her tracing the arms of the pentagram on her own skin late at night.

Dean stared down at her, awed by her gentleness, her shadowy beauty. The lamplight danced on her cheeks, cut out the lines of her lips; highlighted the fringe of lashes over her eyes.

She could feel his eyes on her and looked up, meeting his gaze. He shivered as her fingers slipped down his chest, sucked in a breath as her nails bit lightly into the tender flesh of his hips, exhaled slowly when she tugged his zipper down.

As his jeans sank to his ankles, Y/N turned away and lifted the thin nightshirt from her body, leaving her naked but for a pair of lilac panties. She didn’t look back as she slid into bed and tucked herself in the corner by the wall. When she was in place, she rolled over and lifted her arms, calling Dean to her side.

He kicked his boots off, let the denim rest beside them. He kept his boxers on and gracefully climbed in beside her.

His head sank into the pillow and her scent flooded his senses. The cushion was cool and comforting, the blanket heavy in a delicious way that made his body finally relax. Y/N tucked him in and then cuddled closer, pressing her flesh against his.

Dean could feel her firm breasts against his side, the soft curve of her waist, the heft of her hips. He bathed in her heat and rolled towards her, ready to unburden his soul. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat but no words would form.

He struggled.

She smiled.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she assured him, scooting up a bit on the bed. “I’ve got you.” She shifted quickly and Dean fell against her chest, cradled in her arms.

He pressed his ear to her heart and closed his eyes. Every beat pulsed through him and he breathed slowly with her, letting the tears finally come.

The harder he cried, the tighter she held him. She ran her hands through his hair, rubbed at his shoulders, kissed the top of his head, again and again reassuring him that he was safe with her, cared for, and loved.

Dean slid his arm around her waist and held on, feeling more like a whimpering child than a man. Forty years hung on him like lead, threatening to twist his bones and break his spirit.

He cried it all out as Y/N held him. Every hunt gone wrong, every death and resurrection. He cried for his parents, he cried for Sam. He cried for every soul he’d tortured in Hell, every life on Earth he’d failed to save. He cried for Charlie and for Eileen; for Kevin and Crowley. He cried for Lisa, cried for Ben. He cried for his youth, his wins and losses. He cried for Cas.

Y/N absorbed every tear, soothed every sob. She rocked him gently as his body shook, traced circles in his back to give him something else to focus on. She never let her grip waiver, never let a second go by without touching him in some way.

Night lifted slowly and the sun poked at the curtains. The windows glowed with pink and golden light and Dean stirred.

He lifted his head from Y/N’s arm and blinked into the growing light. She was fast asleep, chest rising and falling gently with each breath. Half circles darkened the flesh beneath her eyes and her hair was a mess, but she was nothing short of beautiful in his eyes.

Dean breathed easy for the first time in a long while. He felt lighter. When he closed his eyes, he saw the empty darkness of his eyelids and nothing more. No death, no blood, no hiding dangers. He smiled.

Daring to wake her, he slid his fingers lightly across her forehead and tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear.

Y/N pulled in a heavy breath and her eyes fluttered open. She saw his face and smiled.

His eyes were brighter, his cheeks pink and warm.

“Mornin’,” he whispered, leaning closer to her lips.

“Good morning.” She licked her lips and looked down at his. Plump and wet, they pushed out a bit, reaching for hers. “You seem better…”

He smiled. “Thanks to you.”

She bit her lip, tugging the corner of her mouth between her teeth. Shyly, she looked up into his eyes and knew that, if only for a little while, he would be alright.

His kiss was heavy and needy, tongue pressing between her lips before she was prepared. She gasped into him, slid beneath him when he tugged her closer.

His weight was crushing and devastatingly arousing and Y/N spread her legs, wrapping herself around his waist. She could feel that he was as ready as she was, and reached down between them to pull her panties aside.

Dean propped up on his aching arms and gazed down at her. She was everything in that moment- lover, friend, nurse, savior. He licked at her lips again and closed his eyes, breathing every drop of her in. He held his breath, memorizing her taste, her scent, her warmth, and tucking it away for later.

He’d always need her.

Always love her.

They showered together; unwilling to part.

They held hands over slightly burned pancakes and chewy bacon.

They lingered in the doorway, clutched in each other’s arms.

“You sure you can’t stay?” she asked, refusing to let go.

Dean kissed the top of her head and gave her arms a squeeze. “I have to get back.”

“Places to go, people to save, right?” She laughed sadly and pulled back, giving him a faint smile. “I missed you, you know.”

He sighed and looked down for a moment, feeling the weight of everything pushing down on him again. Guilt rattled in his brain and he chewed his lip, rubbed her hand between both of his.

“I’m sorry-” His voice was deep and heavy.

She shook her head. “Don’t be. I’m just… I always miss you, Dean.”

He smiled. “I miss you too,” he confessed. “A lot.”

Y/N grabbed his hands and swung them playfully at their sides. “So… maybe don’t stay away too long next time, huh?”

“I won’t.” Dean dragged her hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles on each hand. “I promise.”

One last kiss goodbye, one last press of her body against his.

The road home was just as long but a little bit easier. He carried the feel of her home with him, kept her face in the back of his mind. She was like a soldier in his head, forever poised and ready to defend him, to cast away the visions that plagued his daydreams, to set his heart right when his faith began to dissipate. An angel there to keep him safe and guard his nights, a gentle love to make everything alright.

Death would come for him soon enough, but for now, he drove the highways and unpaved backroads home with a new sense of hope. He could watch the trees fly by, enjoy the changing horizon and let the light seep into his soul.

He felt better.

He felt strangely OK.

He was glad he hadn’t called.

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[mrs-barnes-rogers-writes]

Pretty As A Picture - Chapter 1

Marvel

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes

Theme: Soulmates - Feeling the connection as soon as you see each other.

Summary: When Bucky fell from the train, their soulmate was told he was gone. When Steve Rogers disappeared into the ice, their soulmate was again told one of her soulmates were gone. But she didn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. Committed to a mental health institute, she dies of a broken heart. That's at least what the hidden S.H.I.E.LD files say, but if that's the case than why is there a photo of her. A photo that shows her side by side two redhaired Avengers.

Warnings will be per chapter.

For this fic reader will be British, but let your imagination replace if needed.

Chapter Summary: The team are back together and their soul family back in place. Emotions run high, their exhausted and a photo is about to shake Bucky to his core.

Chapter Warning: Mentions of death, sad Bucky.

Natasha looked around the room, scanning her weary team mates. Her soul family. It had taken a while to get here but they had. Sure Tony and Steve continued to be at each other’s throats and Bucky’s face got more broody by the day but they were together.

Knowing Wanda was also back in the Compound, Vision at her side as they settled into their new quarters brought a smile to her face.

The rush of emotions of everyone being together had been too much for Wanda, and when Steve and Tony had squared up to each other for the third time in as many hours, Rhodes and Wilson forced to keep them apart as Bucky packed a bag to leave, she’d had enough.

Natasha had ushered Bruce away to avoid a code green, as Vision had tried to do the same with Wanda. But Wanda had reached her breaking point and had enough of the arguments, the intense negative energy that surrounded her soul family had brought her to breaking point. Her nights were plagued with nightmares about her family, Pietro, and her days were a living nightmare with her soul family at each other’s throats. Wanda had screamed as she’d nearer collapse.

“Enough!” she’d yelled as Vision looped an arm around her waist to keep her upright, “do you see? You never see do you? The damage you’re doing? To our family? To each other?!”

She paused as she took a breath.

“I’m leaving.”

There were calls of her name as Vision led her from the room. An hour later they were in a Quinjet over the Atlantic, directions to a safe house and a contact of Natasha’s. The rest of them didn’t speak to each other for a week following Wanda and Vision’s departure, the only exception their own soulmates. When Natasha wouldn’t say where they were, they didn’t speak to her for a few days longer.

Wanda’s return came three months later, sure there was still bickering but they’d learnt the hard way to keep it away from her. As much as they’d had preferred a longer break, missions and their skillsets had meant a need for them to return.

The Hydra clean up had originally been going well but a repeat of dead leads and bad intel had caused any more arrests to dry up. 

As the digital map displayed across the meeting room showed the dead ends and places still be searched. Natasha scanned the faces of her team mates and soul family in the room. Steve was seemingly staring into thin air. Tony flipped a pen between his hands. Rhodey rubbed his eyes. Sam had his eyes on a screen full of text but the movement of his eyes indicated he was reading the same sentence over and over again. Bucky stared at a spot on one of the maps. A no go area in part of Germany. An old Nazi bunker that they had very little chance of getting permission to search even with the New Accords. 

Unless she asked for a favour. A favour from you. Her attention was brought away from her stray thoughts as Bruce wrapped himself around her, a soft kiss to her forehead.

“They need a break.”

She smiled warmly at him.

“Guys, let’s take a break, half an hour and regroup.”

The only responses were sighs, stretches and yawns. Bucky was the first one up and out of the room rubbing his hand down his face in frustration as he went. Tony’s voice broke the silence. 

“Is there a reason he keeps staring at the same spot?”

“The same reason I keep rereading this.” Sam replied pointing at the screen. 

“It’s one of the no go areas left from the war, but it feels to me like that’s the next stop” Steve added.

“Has he been there before?” Tony asked.

“We both have.” Steve replied.

“Recently or before?” Asked Natasha, referencing before Steve was in the ice and Bucky was in cyro.

“Before.”

“Look if it’s a no go area you know the chances of us getting in there are real slim.” added Rhodey.

“Not necessarily.” added Nat.

“Let me guess” Sam enquired “you know a guy?”

“A girl actually.” she replied. 

Tony cocked an eyebrow and glanced round at his soul family.

“Spill it Romanoff.” 

Meanwhile down the hall Bucky splashed cold water on his face. He knew the next spot was likely to be that bunker and he knew he wasn’t going to like it. If they could even get in there it would bring back too many memories. 

Memories of when they’d raided it. Memories of when he was back there twelve years later. He needed coffee or something stronger. Where was Thor when he needed him. 

He headed out of the bathroom and along the corridor to the coffee station and began to start up the machine and root through the snacks. In the distance he could hear the hums of Wanda from the printing room. The room was barely used, the team opting for electronic devices or projections instead but Steve still liked paper copies and every mission had a pack of freshly printed paper maps just in case. Two packs in fact. One for use and one just in case. 

Every time Steve would drop the two packs on to the meeting room table or fiddle with them on his lap in the Quinjet he would give Bucky a sad smile and nod his head, which Bucky would return. 

It was silly really how things reminded them of their shared soulmate. Their soulmate had prepared maps for British Special Forces during the war and their eye to detail had been the best around, making Peggy quick to recruit their girl to her team. The fates leading her to Steve first and then Bucky. Their soulmate would do anything to keep them safe. Nagging Howard for better equipment and weapons. Telling him to “quit flirting and stop trying to fondue anything in a skirt and bloody get on with it”.

Howard never let on he was slightly scared of their soulmate, not to any of their faces but the panic in his eyes gave him away. Steve had nicknamed their soulmate a Spitfire, like the British fighter plane. The look on their girls face said he shouldn’t have.

Her way of keeping them safe was to slip extra bandages into their gear, sew small bits of metal into their suits to cover key areas but not too much to weigh them down. Then there was the packs. Always two packs of maps, just in case. Bucky sometimes wondered if their girl slipped extra copies to the other Howling Commandos. 

“Can’t have you getting lost lads. You Yanks are awful with directions.”

Bucky would always tap her ass playfully as she passed by for that comment. 

His thoughts were soon snapped back by Vision’s soft voice. 

“James?”

Bucky cleared his throat to answer, and wiping his face roughly when he realised he was crying.

“Yeah? You need something?”

“Actually I wanted to check if you needed anything.”

“No, I’m good, thanks Vis”

“Were you thinking of her again? If you’d like to talk about her, Wanda and I would happily listen.”

Bucky turned away, dipping his head, gripping the counter of the coffee station. He tried to take a deep breath but it came out shuddered. 

“James, I maybe speaking out of turn and uninvited but there is no shame in grief and you certainly don’t need to hide it from us. For anyone in the outside world it is a lifetime ago but for you, it is not, and there is no timeframe or timeline for grief.”

Bucky heard Wanda’s soft footsteps approach. 

“James, take it from someone that’s knows, it is better to talk than it is to keep it inside. You listened to me talk about my brother, I’d be honoured to hear about her.”

Bucky nodded and turned towards them both teary eyed.

“Whenever you want us to, we’ll listen” added Vision.

He rubbed his face and nodded again. It was then he noticed a pile of photos in Wanda’s arms. All different sizes clutched in her hands, he was puzzled as he had barely seen a printed photo since being out of cyro, Sam telling him that people don’t often print them anymore. He then noticed Vision was holding picture frames. 

“Did you print these? I didn’t think people did that anymore?”

“Not always but I like them,” Wanda answered “reminds me of home. This one Tony found for me on an old friend’s social media account” as she handed him a picture of Pietro. 

“This one is when we were away” she handed him another. A picture of the couple near a lake, Scotland, Bucky thought to himself.

“This one is from” Wanda started only to stop abruptly as some of the photos scattered to the floor. She cursed in Sokovian as she went to pick them up.

“I’ve got it” Bucky said as he reached for them. He passed the first two up to Wanda but the third made him freeze.

To anyone else it was a normal picture. Three friends side by side. Two red heads and a (Y/H/C). Only it wasn’t a normal photo at all. Because alongside his two redheaded soul sisters, Wanda with a soft smile and Natasha looking nonchalant, was another woman. A woman that haunted his dreams. 

His soulmate.  Their girl.

Enjoy this fic? Fancy a cuppa? My Ko-Fi.

[florencemtrash]

Flame, Shadow, Beast : Shadow

Azriel x Reader x Eris

Summary: Years after Eris frees you from his father’s prison, you’ve managed to find a new love, new friends, and build a life for yourself in Autumn. But when a certain Shadowsinger stumbles upon your home, dragging in painful memories of betrayal and longing, you’ll have to face the things you left in the past and make choices about the future you want.

Warnings: Angst (specifically a very angsty Azriel)

Flame, Shadow, Beast: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Azriel gripped his glass so tightly in his fist he wondered if it would shatter. 

Another year gone. Another year without you. Another year where the guilt ate at his stomach and heart so fiercely he wondered if he was hollow on the inside. 

Azriel! WAIT! No! Please, no! AZ! HELP ME!

“Azriel.” Cassian’s voice brought him back to reality, a reality where he sat at an empty booth looking murderous as he tried to drown out the past with his ninth drink of the night.

“Cass.” He said stiffly. His voice was as steady and clear as if he hadn’t drank at all. Cassian could never tell if it was because the alcohol didn’t affect him, or because he was incredible at faking sobriety - either was possible when it came to Az.

“This is the fourth night in a row.”

“You’re perceptive. You should take my job.” Azriel’s voice was so dead and emotionless it frightened him.

“Stop this and come home.” Cassian said, almost begging. 

Azriel grit his teeth and said nothing, downing the rest of his drink and silently gesturing to the bar for another one. When the drink came, Cassian snatched it up first. Maybe the drinks had affected him, because on any other day, Azriel could strike faster than lightning.

“Rhysand has a job for you.” He said, pulling on the small collection of words guaranteed to bring some life to his brother.

Azriel’s spine snapped straight and Cassian flinched at how quickly his brother - brooding and sarcastic as he may be - was replaced by The Shadowsinger. 

“What’s the job?”

Find Bryaxis. Those were the two words that had sent Azriel flying into the night sky and across all of Prythian, chasing after the demon that had eluded them since the end of the war against Hybern.

For over a decade they’d all held their breath when it came to the ancient creature. For over a decade they’d been plagued by more pressing matters than a beast who seemed content to remain hidden and out of mind. Still, Azriel hadn’t forgotten about him. No, he was like a loose thread on a piece of clothing - forever destined to tug and unravel at Azriel’s shortening patience and sanity. 

Nesta had felt something. Something she wasn’t sure of - Bryaxis looming over all of Prythian like a shadow before curling up into a sliver of smoke and disappearing for good. 

They’d written to Elain to see if she had seen anything through her Eye, but she’d also been experiencing blind spots in her vision. The future was always full of events, some malleable and some concrete, but it was more unclear than ever before - like someone had shattered a mirror and she was left to string the pieces back together.

Azriel shook his head, emptying his mind of thoughts of Elain. It would do him no good. Thoughts concerning Elain were painful enough now that she’d left the Night Court… they were made even worse because they always traced their way back to you. Like how rivers must always find their way back to the sea, Azriel found himself drawn back to memories of you, so bright and full of heat they blinded and burned him. Your smile, your laugh, the grim determination on your face as you stared him down during sparring matches. You’d been his anchor without him even knowing it. 

And now you were gone. And it was all his fault.

Stupid, stupid fool. He hissed at himself.

Threads of information concerning Bryaxis were sparse and limited, but Azriel chased after them all, finding himself deep within the gleaming workshops of Dawn, the silent and cherished libraries of Day, and the sea-whipped bellies of Summer Court ships before finally tracing Bryaxis to the Autumn Court.

This has to be handled delicately. It is imperative that no one discovers you. 

Azriel saw Rhysand’s familiar graceful penmanship, read the words, and immediately crushed the note in his hand, casting it into the dying fire. The paper folded and crumpled from the heat before turning to ash.

He huddled down in the mountains that crossed the line between Winter and Autumn, grateful to be free from the cutting winds. Beyond the frozen lake were rolling hills of bejeweled forest. He wouldn’t risk flying now. From here he’d travel through shadows and by foot, getting as close to the Forest House as he dared.

If his intuition was right (and it so often was), if Eris knew Bryaxis was within the borders of his court, he would keep him close. Close enough to monitor, close enough to kill if need be. But what The High Lord of Autumn would want with Bryaxis, Azriel had no idea.

With the issue of succession dealt with and Eris planted on the High Lord’s seat, there came less and less of a need to continue relations between Autumn and Night, at least between Autumn and the Court of Dreams. After the war and until a month ago, nearly all of Eris’s dealings had been with Keir and the Court of Nightmares. Rhysand wanted to change that, and that meant if Azriel wanted to search for Bryaxis in Autumn, he would have to do it in secret. Eris would sooner pluck out his eyes than let any member of the Inner Circle scour his lands voluntarily.

Azriel traveled from town to town, inching ever closer to the Forest House, which curled up beneath the earth like a sleeping giant. That was the issue with the Forest House - hardly anyone knew the size of it, and that meant Azriel could be walking above a watchguard stronghold and not realize until it was too late. 

Something stirred within him when he reached one of the Forest House border towns. Everywhere people seemed brighter, livelier than when Beron had been alive, but this place… this place was filled with an uncharacteristic casualness and joy. The marketplace bustled with activity even in the early morning. Plump fruits, freshly baked bread, and sticky treacle candies wrapped in wax paper were laid out with care on hand-built carts decorated with golden chrysanthemums and sunflowers. 

You would have loved this place.

No. This wasn’t what he’d come for. He’d come to distract himself with work and to find Bryaxis.

Azriel slipped up the trees and settled in between two arching branches, straining his ears to hear the talk that went on below. His shadows slithered out to gather information his senses couldn’t reach.

“Faula’s with child, can you imagine! After so-”

“Thirty?! Why, how could you charge so much! The High Lo-”

“Four dozen eggs, two pounds of flour, six slabs of butter, and-”

“Will Our Lady be coming?” 

Azriel’s ears pricked up, blocking out the hushed conversation that went on around the pair of females who sat on milk crates and peeled apples under the cover of a thatched roof. The crisp sound of a knife sliding between fruit and peel followed by the thunk of a cored apple dropping into a barrel was a soft rhythm to Azriel’s ears.

“To ours?! Good gods, Rebessa, to think that she’d spend the harvest here.”

“She lives close by. It’s not as though we’re strangers to her and she’s wonderfully kind!”

“I hear she’s been invited elsewhere.”

The female gasped, her hand flying up to her mouth. “Elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere.” 

“Do you think he’ll-”

“Shhhhh. You mustn’t say anything. I’m not even supposed to know.” 

“Well how’d you find out?”

“Syndra says he’s been visiting jewelers and carpenters every week. He could be preparing a new room… or a bridal chest.”

“About time! And will he be going with her?”

“He follows wherever Our Lady goes.”

“Shame. He was unnerving, but welcome. Haven’t lost a sheep or hen in ages.” 

They continued on, whispering between their bowed heads of matching ruby-colored hair. Autumn Court members were crafty and secretive by nature, an unfortunate byproduct of existing beneath the thumbs of one brutal and cunning High Lord after another. But it would seem their tongues had loosened in the years since Eris had come into his power.

Our Lady. 

Elsewhere. 

He.

Azriel rolled the words around in his mind like a rough-cut stone in a tumbler, then set off to find the “he” who followed this Lady wherever she went.

As he slipped through the village, searching for a home that would be fit enough for a Lady of Autumn, there were two things he noticed. First, the stirring in his chest had grown stronger, like the pulling of the sea as it went out with the tide or the beating of a firefly’s wings against glass. Second, for a town of this size, even one that lay so close to the Forest House, there were only a handful of guards left to trot around atop their horses and an additional handful that patrolled the paths to the fields on foot. Whoever this Lady was, she offered them enough protection and power that Eris would willingly leave it vulnerable - at least in appearance.

Azriel’s nerves sparked with interest, his heart thrumming with the adrenaline that came with staying hidden. It was like a game of sorts. A game of how far he could go, how deep into a court could he burrow, how many secrets he could steal from tight lips without getting caught. 

When he came across the cottage beyond the borders of town, nothing but the faint trail made by footsteps and horse hooves hinting at its existence through the break in the treeline, he was unimpressed. No wave of power rushed over him. No hunting dogs or other monsters were posted at the door. The only thing that strengthened, and had continued to strengthen as he neared this place, was that fluttering tightness in his chest. 

He couldn’t tell if it was his instincts on edge or a bad omen of what was to come. 

There was a flat, empty stretch of land from the treeline to the front door. He called upon his shadows, drawing his power over himself to hide as he slinked across the grass soundlessly. His feet knew where to step, his lungs knew when to take breath, until suddenly he was at the side door. A peek in through the window confirmed his suspicions. 

There was no one here. 

He pressed his fingertips to the walls of the house, feeling the magic splinter outward like a ripple on a still lake. It was an unassuming, but powerful spell that wrapped around the house like a second skin. But Azriel was craftier than that, poking for weak spots in the magic and finding an opening in the chimney. 

He broke through the veil of magic, slipped into the darkness, and emerged on the other side inside the house. 

It was the smell that dropped him to his knees, the scent of witch hazel, rosemary oil, and oranges, clean and bright and warm all at the same time. 

It smelled like you. 

All thoughts of his mission and staying hidden at all costs were wiped from his mind. Now he searched for you.

He walked as if in a trance, finding pieces of you everywhere. He found you in the half-drunken mug of tea sweetened with honey and lavender syrup on the kitchen counter. He found you in the embroidery on the curtains - dainty flowers and vines used to patch up the holes and scratches with a personal touch. He found you in the fingerprints that stained the outer leaves of the books on the table. 

All these small things spoke a truth he hadn’t dared hope for in over a decade.

You were still alive.

He whirled around, searching the space with desperation for any further signs of you. But the house was empty and still, pieces of furniture missing like you’d been preparing to leave.

You slipped into your house, pressing a finger against your lips in warning to Bryaxis.

Stay silent. 

The monster obeyed, his neck twisting to the side at an unnatural angle as his body grew in size, shadowy flesh warping and stretching until he’d taken the form of a bear. 

Your eyes turned black. Power whispering at the edges of your mind just waiting to be called upon. You flexed your hands, calling your sword from the ether and feeling its familiar weight drop into your palm. 

There was a stranger in your home. A male from the looks of his build and height. He rummaged through the drawers by the door, deft fingers pulling out letters and keys while his other hand gripped his weapon.

You aimed the sword in the center of their back, tracing their spine with your eyes and pressing it against the space between two vertebrae, right at the root of their lungs.

“Drop the sword.” You commanded, pressing harder. The blade sliced through the layers of leather armor with ease. A wrong move, too deep a breath, and you’d slice through their spinal cord and leave them paralyzed on the floor.

Azriel’s heart hammered away in his chest and the feeling there twisted and ate away at him. Turn around. The voice commanded. Look at her.

His hold on his sword went slack, the metal singing before it clattered onto the floor. Without being asked, he unsheathed Truth-Teller, dropped it to the floor and slid the weapon back towards you, holding his breath as your boot stopped the ancient blade in its tracks with a solid thump.

You hadn’t recognized him. How could you? It was unnatural to see him in undyed leather armor and his raven black hair was tucked beneath a matching hood. The rich browns of the amour whispered of Autumn. He must have stolen it shortly after crossing the border into your court. But Truth-Teller? There was no mistaking it.

You grabbed him by the back of his jacket, spun him around, and slammed him against the wall before ripping off the hood with a snarl. The cool touch of your blade against his throat and between the slats of his ribs couldn’t stop what he knew was coming. 

The bond burst to life and burned within his chest, swooping and singing like a bird off a cliffside. It was a breath of fresh air. An answer to all his maddening questions.

“Hello Y/n.” His voice rang out in the house, deep and dark and all too familiar. 

You froze, eyes blowing wide open as you tightened your hold on the knife and sword until your knuckles turned white. 

Aside from the clothes he didn’t look any different from the last time you’d seen him. Same black hair, same hazel eyes that shone a million different colors, same beautiful, sculpted face spoiled by an uncharacteristic look of shock and awe. 

He looked the same as he did on the day he handed you over to Beron. 

You for Elain. 

You in exchange for the female he loved.

The betrayal still stung like salt rubbed into a fresh wound. 

Fury set your blood boiling and you answered its call, drawing back and slamming your fist into the side of his jaw so hard you felt something crack and split.

Azriel fell to the ground, catching himself on one hand as the other flew up to his jaw. 

Dislocated. 

He popped it back into place, wiping his mouth and seeing his hand come away red with blood. 

Azriel’s heart threatened to stop in his chest. His eyes crawled over the sight of you, hungry and desperate for every inch of proof that you stood before him. Your eyes were alight, brighter than any fire the world could set ablaze. Everything about you was wide and full of feeling as you stood above him, 

Inside his chest, the mate bond continued to purr happily, refusing to be silenced.

“Y/n.” He said again. The words fell like a prayer from his lips. “You’re alive.” 

“No thanks to you.” 

Bryaxis growled in agreement from your side, lips pulling back to expose teeth stronger than metal and smooth as porcelain. Azriel’s eyes flickered down to him in surprise before going back to you. 

“Bryaxis. You’re his master now.” A flash of pride warmed his chest. Leave it to you to take control of one of the most dangerous monsters in existence. Cassian would lose his mind when he found out.

Again, the creature growled, this time in disgust.

At the mention of the creature you’d come to consider a worthy friend you snapped out of your stupor and pointed the sword at his chest, just beneath his sternum, pressing down. Any more force and you’d break skin. Angle it upwards and push and you’d reach his heart.

“Y/n, please.” He begged. It was another shock to your system. You’d never heard him beg for anything. 

“What do you want?” The words came out hard and trembling.

“I came to find Bryaxis and bring him back to the Night Court. I… I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” 

“Obviously. And yet you’re in my house. Uninvited, might I add.” There was an edge to your voice that hadn’t been there before, a harder gleam to your eyes despite everything else remaining the same. There were some scars that did not write themselves onto skin.

“I… How did you survive?” 

Your lips tightened and turned pale, “Are you shocked? Disappointed?”

Azriel flinched. Your words may as well have been another blow to his face. The flesh around his jaw was beginning to bruise, shifting from an inflamed red to a mottled purple. 

“No!” Azriel lifted his hands up in surrender. “We searched for you. We searched for you for weeks… You have to believe me.” You searched his eyes for an answer, expecting to be met with his usual unreadable expression. But you found the exact opposite. He seemed… lost. Like he didn’t know what to do with himself. If you didn’t know better you would say the Shadowsinger looked frightened.

“I’m sorry.” he gasped, “For everything.” 

It was too late for apologies. Far too late. You told him as much.

“I know,” Azriel swallowed thickly, “I know.” He said again, quieter this time. Something within him dimmed.

“Bryaxis isn’t coming with you.” You said, breaking the silence and finally taking the pressure of your sword off his chest. Azriel moved back onto his feet as swift and strong as a river. “Now get out.” 

You turned your back to him, shrugging off the uncomfortable feelings that weighed on your shoulders. You’d be happier when he was long gone.

“You can run back to Rhys and tell him you failed.”

“Y/n-” His hand brushed against your arm, willing you to look at him again. And you did. You whirled on him in an instant, shoving him back with the hilt of your sword.

“Don’t touch me.” You growled. He flinched again like he’d been burned. 

“I’m sorry, Y/n. I-” He scrambled for words that wouldn’t come. Anything to hold on to you for a little while longer, “Why didn’t you come back to the Night Court? Why didn’t you come home?”

A stupid question to which he already knew the answer.

“That was never my home and there’s nothing left for me there.”

Azriel shook his head, hair shining like a raven’s wing in flight, “That’s not true.” 

I’m there. He sent his pleas through the bond. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve been waiting for you for years… for my whole life. 

“It is true.”

“And there’s more for you here?” Azriel asked quietly. “You live here on your own, no friends, no family.” 

“I didn’t have friends or family in the Night Court either.” You weren’t going to tell him about Eris or Halvor or the others. He didn’t have any right to that knowledge, “You proved that when you traded me away to Beron.” 

Azriel tipped his head forward, closing his eyes to the feeling of shame that weighed him down.

Azriel! WAIT! No! Please, no! AZ! HELP ME! 

“It was Rhys and I who made the decision. The others didn’t know. Don’t hate them for what we did.” 

Your laugh came out like a sharp bark, “I have a hard time believing that.” 

If the circumstances were different, he might have pulled down the neck of his shirt and shown you the thin scar on his shoulder, courtesy of Nesta stabbing him with a kitchen knife after she’d learned what he’d done. She would have gone for a second attempt if it hadn’t been for Cassian. He’d dragged her away screaming and crying. 

“It’s true. I swear it.” Azriel whispered.

You didn’t say more, didn’t give him the satisfaction of continuing the conversation. His eyes burned into you, moving across your body with a lover’s touch like you were a well and he was looking to drown.

Before you would have melted under his gaze. Before you’d wanted nothing more than to see him look at you this intently. Things had changed.

“I’ll give you an hour to leave these lands. If you’re not long gone by then, I’ll send Bryaxis after you.” 

The creature bristled with excitement, teeth bared in a terrifying smile.

“Y/n-” Azriel begged. “Please. The others-”

“I don’t care about the others.” Your voice cracked and you hated yourself for it. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“I don’t care what you believe or don’t believe.”

“Y/n…” He knew you were serious about your threat and that time was ticking, but he needed to see you again. He needed it like flame needs oxygen. “The others didn’t know…” 

To your surprise he dropped down to one knee in front of you, eyes tilted towards the ground.

“I hate what I did to you. I hate that I hurt you and.. And I know…” He swallowed thickly, “I know I don’t deserve any kindness or forgiveness, but at least let the others see you… Let them visit,” He added after a short pause, “In Autumn, if that’s what you want.”

“Get out, Azriel.” 

To hear you say his name broke the dam on old memories, painful and numerous. Memories of you screaming out for him to help you when Beron’s men strapped the ashwood chains around your wrists and ankles. Screams begging him to take you home. Anywhere other than Autumn. Anywhere other than under Beron’s thumb.

Azriel! WAIT! No! No, no, no, no, no. Please, no! AZ! HELP ME! 

“Please. Consider it.” Azriel murmured. You turned away from him, looking at the engraved clock on the wall. Every tick tock of its hands felt like a death knell. 

“They’ll be glad to know you’re alive and safe… more than you know.” 

You said nothing, heard nothing as he took his things and slipped out of your house. But you felt his absence like a stone in your stomach. It wasn’t until Bryaxis nudged your waist that all the anger, sadness, and longing crashed in around you. You broke down on the floor, and began to sob into Bryaxis’s side.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______

Author's note:

Yeahhhhhh, Azriel fucked up. But I feel like this would be in character for him? He gets fixated on the people in his life that he's able to 'save' (i.e., Mor and Elain) and especially because of the whole '3 sisters for 3 brothers' thing, I think he would be willing to make big sacrifices to save Elain if it came down to it... but perhaps I'm wrong. I would be curious to hear other people's opinions on it.

Anyhow, sorry for the sad and angsty chapter.

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @nightless @mmb-09 @thesnugglingduck @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kemillyfreitas @logankemaek @the-sweet-psycho @a-frog-with-a-laptop @flameandshadowx @applerubyy @esposadomd @imma-too-many-fandoms @bubybubsters

[kuromori4]

FIC-CEPTION!

I'm so pleased to finally tease this collaboration between @fandomofone and I for this year's @mlbigbang2024

Our collaborative fic (About a collaborative fic!) is jam-packed full of flirty late-night DMs between two anonymous penpals who get to know each other far more intimately than they ever expected! Miscommunications pave the way for delicious identity shenanigans that take you on a wild ride with two unwitting partnerships and three different reveals!

Rated: M (Mature)

Check out the summary and teaser for Marinette below! (And be sure to visit @fandomofone's profile for Adrien's!)

Summary:

When the Ladyblog debuts a new fanfiction feature, Marinette wants nothing to do with it… until an unlikely recommendation piques her curiosity. She discovers— much to her dismay— that fans are writing salacious, and frankly, quite shocking things about Ladybug and Chat Noir!  Scandalized, she’s ready to write fanfiction off for good, until she receives a link to a fic that’s too tempting to resist— leading her to #1LadyFan, a surprisingly good author that writes convincing romance, and seems to have an alarming amount of insight on the duo’s dynamic that isn’t public knowledge.  Flustered, irritated, and admittedly a little intrigued, Marinette creates the username PolkaDotPrincess and contacts the author to offer constructive criticism on what she considers to be glaring inaccuracies. Meanwhile, Adrien is thrilled to learn that his Ladynoir fanfiction is gaining popularity, and over the moon when a reader reaches out. After weeks of increasingly flirty late-night conversations with his mysterious online friend, Adrien notices that she seems to know an awful lot about Ladybug and Chat Noir. Eager to learn more about her, he puts her critique to the test and challenges her to join him in a collaborative effort to write a more ‘realistic’ romance featuring Paris’ favorite superheroes.

Teaser:

Marinette sat perched on the edge of her chaise in her pajamas, staring absently across the room at her computer as its Adrien-themed screensaver played across the screen. She squeezed the ends of her wet hair with the towel draped around her shoulders, soaking up the water that dripped down her neck.  She’d thought that maybe a nice hot shower would help take her mind off of the intrusive thoughts that had been plaguing her all day. Instead, all that the hot shower had done for her was to conjure up some equally hot images in her mind…  Adrien Agreste, casually lounging on his bed in only slippers and a bathrobe, wearing reading glasses (for some entirely inexplicable reason, as his vision was perfect, like him), with a laptop balanced on his lap. His vibrant green eyes were half-lidded as if in a trance, so deeply absorbed as he was in his reading…  Marinette stood up abruptly, her damp towel dropping to the chaise. Suddenly, it had become all too clear to her that— Adrien reads fanfiction. She stiffly marched the three paces toward her desk, her head swimming as she processed this morning’s shocking revelations. It's not that big of a deal, really. It’s just that— Adrien reads FANFICTION. And not just any fanfiction, but LadyNoir fanfiction! Okay, maybe it’s a bit of a big deal, because she couldn’t help but make the connection that— Adrien reads fanfiction about her! Marinette plopped into her desk chair, swiveling around to face her suddenly intimidating computer screen.  Sure, there was no way that Adrien could know he was reading about her, but the truth of the matter is that she is Ladybug! So if Adrien was spending his nights reading fanfiction, then that meant— Adrien reads fanfiction about her… being with another man!! She groaned loudly, her forehead falling onto the keyboard with a series of clacks.  Oh, this is just too cruel.

Neverending thanks to my co-author @fandomofone for putting up with me, and the artists on this project, @eclipsesmoonshine14 and @ayekasong And to everyone in the @mlbigbang2024 Discord server who have made this entire event a blast!

[swanmaids]

Hot take… none of the Nolofinweans is “the boring one” and all are unhinged.

Fingolfin - obvious really. Challenged Satan to single combat and called him a coward AND MORGOTH CAME. Marched across an icy wasteland just to tell his half brother that he’s a bitch. Didn’t get complacent with the siege for even half a second.

Anaire - “fuck them kids”. Saw her husband and all of her children about to go into exile and decided she’d rather hang out with her girl bestie instead.

Fingon - murdered innocents. Sung a jaunty little tune while trekking through Hell and it WORKED. Rescued his cousincest failboyfriend after possibly the worst breakup of all time. Manwe felt sorry for him. Told baby Glaurung to go crawling back to mummy and he DID. Balrog fight.

Turgon - disappeared in the middle of the night with thousands of people forever because “ulmo is sending me dreams”. Morgoth had crazy beef with him SPECIFICALLY. Died screaming about the glory of the Noldor while his city fell around his ears. SUCH a hater towards his cousins that it went down in the historical record.

Aredhel - also part of aforementioned disappearance. Moved to a city where nobody could leave ever and then just…left. “My cousins who killed everyone and abandoned us to the ice are my besties actually”.

Argon - THEEEE impetuous. Literally all we know about him is he went crazy went stupid at the battle of the Lammoth and died.

Maeglin - probably you don’t want him in your secret city. Looked at seven year old Earendil and said “fuck this one kid in particular”. Strange affinity with moles.

Idril - Plagued By Visions. Secret Tunnel In the Secret City Because Bitches Love Secrets. That Ban Of the Noldor Won’t Stop Me (Or My Sexy Old Man Mortal Husband) Because I Can’t Read.

Earendil - seven years old and everyone wants to kill him. “I don’t want to do my super important quest I want my wife”. But also hold his beer while he saves the world that failed him. Covered in jewels glittery sexy swag. 1v1 with a dragon and WON.

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 7.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 2.5k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

a/n: a short chapter, but very important! the next 3 after this will be very action packed! and then it is the end of act 1!

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, my terrible, terrible combat writing, descriptions of injuries, allusions to suicide, talk of chronic pain and illness

story playlist

Shera had never rushed before so much in her life. She needed out. Out of Viserys’ room, out of the tunnels, out, out, out. As she pushed a stone backing, her knees skidded across the cobbled ground, skin ripping from them violently. Oh, how adept she’d become at injuring herself. She haphazardly wiped a few tears away.

The crisp night air whipped against her face before the smell changed– her other senses other than sight had become so keen since her loss of sight in her eye, so she was especially sensitive to even the most minute change in scents. She smelled the distinct aroma of fire– ashes to ashes, wafting along the breeze, mingling with a familiar smell of sandalwood and white cedar musk. 

A pair of polished black boots, now a bit dull in their pallor from soot, stood in front of her. 

“Lost, little banshee?” Aemond cooed. She could practically see the grin on his face, once again not of joy but something akin to self-assuredness and beastly callousness. 

“I told you…” she croaked, putting her now bloodied fingertips up to her throat, the pain reverberating through every word. “Don’t… call me that, nūmāzma zaldrīzes.” Mean dragon. She didn’t look up, or lift herself in any sort of way. Shera was all too aware she was not wearing her veil, nor her choker– and Aemond’s comments at the dinner (that he had still not apologized for, the cad) were festering in her mind, stinging and infecting like a plague. They hadn’t spoken since her almost ill-fated swan dive. He probably thought she was still suicidal. 

It was all too quick for her to register, her vision was still spinning, but he had picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, or perhaps a bale of hay. He didn’t say anything further as he began to walk down the hall, deeper into the Keep. 

Shera’s face went beet red as she sniffled, kicking her legs against him. “Put me down,” she growled, her voice raising more than it should, her tone becoming skewed and cracking. She resorted to trying to bite him then, her teeth fastening down on the leather jerkin he was wearing. It was so thick, that her attempt to snap her jaws upon his skin was hardly even registered to him.

“No.” he responded flatly, an arm fastened around her waist that was slung over his shoulder, his other hand coming up to swat her bottom. “Stop trying to bite me.”

“This is demeaning.” she hissed, now resulting in hitting her forehead on his shoulder blade, hoping to hide the fact that her face was burning scarlet at the fact that he had swatted her bum like an insolent child, no less carrying her like one. 

“Yes– well, mayhaps you shouldn’t be sneaking around at night, much less without your mutt guiding you.”

She grumbled a noise of discontentment, burying her face into his shoulder blade as a means to hide herself further, lest anyone see the absolutely precarious position that Aemond– and herself– had put her in.

They didn’t speak much as he took her back to her chambers. Moongeist was awake in an instant when he opened the door, growling and snarling.

“... s’okay,” Shera mustered as Aemond planted her on the ground next to the wolf, who immediately calmed at his owner’s presence– not without a wary look towards the prince, though. She put her hand on his head, her fingertips shaking. 

“You’re bloody, Shera.”

“Fell.”

“You can’t go to bed bloody. You’ll stain the sheets.”

“I can.”

“You can– but the maids would most certainly report it to my mother, or worse, to Rhaenyra. It’s not exactly a good look for a supposed maiden bride-to-be having bloodied sheets?”

Shera sighed, putting her head in her hands as she sat at her boudoir. “Get on with it.”

“Tell your mutt to not bite me, then.” Aemond returned in an equally annoyed tone as he wet a cloth at the washing basin, swathing it over her skinned knee, while keeping his eye trained on Moongeist– who in turn, was staring back at him.

“Have half a mind to… you were… quite mean.”

“Mean? I helped you back to your room.”

“At the dinner, when I came back. And you have been quiet since the… Kingswood.” 

“Ah.”

“... ‘ah’? That’s it?”

“Tell me truthfully; are you being coerced into this? If you are, I will cut that Strong bastard from stem to stern like a roasted pig. I see what it's doing to you. You’re frayed at the ends.”

He’s noticed? She glanced at him waywardly, fists squeezing in her lap. “I’m not some helpless little creature with no power… I still have some voice.”

“Hardly.”

“Jacaerys has been… cordial and proper,” she said. When he isn’t fucking my brother, that is.  “He even has written me letters when not visiting. What a novel idea that is, hm?” 

“You’re still upset about that?”

Shera peeked through the hair fallen in front of her face, scowling. “Yes. I am.”

He reached his hand up to pry one of hers from her face. “I’ll need to clean these, too. Even so, I do believe it requires two people to have a conversation through letters, does it not? I don’t recall receiving anything addressed to me from you over the years. I heard Helaena got quite a few.” 

Shera pressed her marred side of her face into her shoulder as she let Aemond clean the blood from her fingertips. She didn’t want him to see– she couldn’t. She didn’t quite understand the confidence that Aemond had, his scar proudly on display above and below his eyepatch. The tips of her ears went red at his insinuation. “... I suppose we both could’ve sent letters, then. I just…” her fingertips twitched as he pressed the cloth underneath her nails, scraping the dried blood from under them. “I wasn’t sure you would want to…” her hands strayed from his grasp, to which he grunted at, taking them back. “Cregan wrote the response for the first one. It… I’m sure you know it was a lie now. He is such an idiot– I am the opposite of fine. I don’t think I’ve been fine in nearly a decade.” her bottom lip wobbled slightly as she rambled on, saying all the things she’d always wanted to say to someone– no, not someone– to him. 

“... it was callous of me,” he finally offered, “To say… what I did at the dinner. It was mostly to rile Jacaerys.” he finally responded, putting the cloth to the side and examining her to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. “I’m sorry.” Aemond spoke his apology quietly, but looked directly at her face, then. His face was… surprisingly open. Not guarded.

“... ‘twas not far from the truth.”

“May I see?” 

Shera shook her head vehemently. “You can’t.”

“Please.”

She made a noise of disagreement, pressing her face further to her shoulder. She didn’t, however, account for the visibility of the scar on her throat, jagged and raised against the soft flesh of her neck. She felt one of Aemond’s fingers trace it, across slowly, then upward. His hand went to her chin and he turned her face towards him. And she let him. She didn’t have much energy to stop him, anyhow. 

His touch was soft, which surprised her greatly– she thought him unhewn and rough in all places– but this was something reminiscent of how he used to touch her as children. He was always gentle with her before. Her face was turned to him completely now, unveiled, unhidden– she braced herself for the look of humor or pity on his face, her heart stopped beating for a moment, her breaths caught in her chest.

Brushing an errant hair aside, he traced the scar over her eye. It wasn’t an entirely clean cut, like he had guessed, jutting out into two diverging lines, like branches of a tree going downward. His violet eye, the hue hardly visible from how large his pupil was, was trained on her blind one. The milky blue, her own pupil long gone. The edges of his lips curled into something akin to wonder. There wasn’t a look of pity and it didn’t seem like he was about to make another poor jest about her face– he just looked, as if to study it, to commit it to memory.

“Blue?” he murmured. “How curious.”

The way he said it had Shera perking her brow– it sounded like an epiphany to him, his voice taking a lighter note than she’d heard. There was no trace of callousness that had been exuding from him previously. He was calm.

“Yes, it's blue,” she muttered in response, his taut (but not uncomfortable) grip on her chin keeping her facing him. She desperately wanted to hide away, hide, hide. She’d never felt so exposed in her life, so naked– and she was fully clothed. It felt like her soul was on display to him, cracking from her ribcage. 

“Let me formally apologize,” he cleared his throat. “‘Tis not mangled at all, nor a mess. I now wonder, even more than before, why you persist with the veil.” Aemond let go of her chin, but not before giving it a little tug in an almost playful manner. Aemond? Playful?

“I like them– it's… to hide.” 

“Hide? To make oneself obscured, to conceal and fade into the background,” he pondered it for a moment. “You make yourself a spectacle with that thing, Shera. You are doing the opposite of hiding.”

Shera puffed out her chest, arms crossed over defensively. “A spectacle?”

“You chastised me for calling you a banshee, when you dress the part,” he leaned back in his chair, hands laced together over his stomach. He was relaxing. 

She puffed, rolling her eyes. She mimicked his body position, leaning back with her hands on her stomach. It felt… odd to be looking at him without any inhibition. It felt almost normal. Normal– normal. When was the last time she felt normal?

“I want to clarify,” she cleared her throat, fingertips paused on her throat from speaking up too fast, too loudly. “I was not trying to kill myself. It… I… I’m not suicidal.”

Aemond’s expression didn’t change, he merely focused his gaze even more onto her. He didn’t say anything.

“The… disassociation is new, like Hela told you,” Shera’s hands wrought over one another slowly. “But it isn’t… unusual, given my… conditions.”

“Conditions?” he asked finally. His face still didn’t give away any emotion.

“... no one else knows except for Cregan and the maesters at Winterfell. Jace probably knows from Cregan… telling him all the things that are wrong with me, to look out for when we’re married.” she took a breath before continuing. “The maesters don’t exactly know what to call it— but it is… I lose control of my body and fall to the ground, convulsing— it's terribly painful and then everything goes black. We have referred to it as my… fainting spells, but it surely feels like more than fainting. It’s… quite violent.” 

Aemond blinked. Hard. He took a beat to absorb the information before speaking. His position shifted as he leaned forward. “When was the last time you had one of these… spells?” 

“… not since Winterfell.” 

“I don’t remember this being an issue when you were younger— is it… relatively new?” he asked then. His lips were pursed together in a tight line, in tandem with his furrowed brow. 

“Since Driftmark.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly at the mention. “Another thing for us to bear, isn’t it?” he gave a low, bitter chuckle. “The Gods weren’t satisfied in our mutilation alone and had to… bestow us with lasting gifts, hm?” 

Shera stayed silent, sitting up to where their knees were touching. Her eyes were wide as she took him in. His melancholic smile and the dullness of his eye as he looked off somewhere in the distance.

“The pain is bad most days. And on its worst days, it’s unbearable. The… the nerve damage, the maesters said. I’ll live with it forever— a constant thrum and reminder of it. There’s a few medicines that help temporarily but…” his voice trailed off, his gaze returning to her. “I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to apologize for, Aemond.” 

“I do and I do not— I should’ve protected you. I should’ve killed them.” he gave an ugly sneer, lip curled. 

Shera’s heart felt like it was in her throat. She wanted to cry, to scream for his pain, for her pain. She couldn’t speak, her voice coming out in unintelligible, choked sobs. 

He looked sad, too. The depth of his despair laid bare in front of her for only a moment. The mask slipped back on, his proverbial walls back up. 

But she knew. 

They were so alike— even now.

–

Aemond had always prided himself on his resilience, on his ability to mask his emotions into stone. 

Why did he become so unraveled with Shera? He confided in her so easily, as if it was second nature. 

His boots stomped down the corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast without much care. He was coming apart at the seams, like a thread pulled from an old doublet, letting the structure of the garment fall away. 

All it took was one thread. 

He found himself at his desk, candles lit. The piece of fabric she’d gifted to him, with her silly note, was still there. He clutched it in his hand, bringing it to his face and taking a breath. 

Lavender, rosemary, chamomile. The scent of her on it still lingered, if not a bit faded. 

He would smell it in the halls, coming back from training. He knew she’d been watching him in secret for the past moon. Whenever it wafted near him, he had half a mind to follow her, to confront her, to hold her—

Fuck. He was fucked. He was fucked the moment she came to King’s Landing— the very first time. 

His hand glided through his hair as he snapped off the leather cord holding it back from his face. Strands of it fell over his vision as he tossed his eyepatch to the settee behind him. 

Taking out the sapphire was a tedious task. And painful. 

But damn the Gods, if he wasn’t vain. Even if he was the only one who saw it most of the time. He clenched his free fist, white knuckled as he prised the gem from his socket, setting it aside. 

He picked up the note that had been attached to her fabric favor, looking over it again. Her handwriting was terrible— but so inevitably her. Pulling a key from under a stack of innocuous papers, he unlocked the third drawer that fell down the side of the oak desk. 

In it, were letters. Penned by him. Unsent, unseen. 

All for her. Everything he’d wanted to say to her for years, everything he’d ever written with her in mind. 

Everything he never could confess— not even now.

There were at least a hundred letters in the drawer, dated from those ten years apart. 

He placed the favor note on the top and locked it back in place. The favor fabric, however, stayed in his hand. 

After some careful cutting and somewhat haphazard stitching— Aemond had sewed a small segment of the fabric to the inside of his eyepatch. 

He stowed the remainder of it in his nightstand.

He was so fucked.

[candilee-joestar]

This took much longer than intended. I drew each of Scoria's main jobs! Here is a bit about them in lore order.

White mage- Taught some basic healing by her mother who was a well known healer in her area, White magic came most naturally to Scoria and was what she relied on in the earliest parts of her travels. Not being very physically strong, she used it almost as a crutch as she bumbled her way through the primals plaguing Eorzea, often relying on the strength of others to push her through fights. Encountering Lizzy while lost in the wilds of Gridania, she taught her some basic’s about being a conjurer. While this did help guide her, she still struggled through most encounters. She grew to resent her white magic and sought other ways to protect herself on the battle field, though, this was an uphill battle, as she had no real combat experience. It wasn’t until much later in her time on the first where she discovered the true strength of white magics, bolstered by the mass of light entering her from the flood. It was this point where she fell back in love with her roots and looked at it more as a tool in her toolbox rather than a weakness.

Red Mage- A secret love of Scoria’s was always the fights on the blood sands in Ul’dah, growing up and watching match after match with her parents. Her favorite heel, Cemi the Titan, who she’d been a long time admirer of, she became friends with and share with him her insecurities about her strength. Noticing her affinity for white magic and her total lack of strength, he felt a good stepping stone would be Red Magic and even (in a very domineering and heel-ish way, tossing it on the ground at her after besting her in combat) gifted Scoria her first rapier. Despite his non-nonchalant and demeaning disposition, the sword had clearly been hand crafted specifically for her.

She created a “Heel-Sona” for herself. Smooth and smug, dawning a set of circular, red, sunglasses (which were secretly also prescription grade as she is blind as a bat), she called herself “Drake” for her time in the coliseum. It was through this that Scoria found some ability to make her way through the dragonsong war. Touching the Eye of Nidhogg when attempting to remove it from Estinien’s body corrupted her aether with that of the wyrm’s, filling her with all his years of rage and hate. Scoria, never experiencing such feelings in this way, tried to channel it through her red mage magic, but this was not effective and often resulted in her accidentally injuring herself or her comrades.

Even after learning to channel this magic through dragoon, she still enjoyed the color it gave her aether and uses a bit of it while using her ‘Drake’ persona to give her more of an ominous glow. Dragoon- Corrupted by Nidhoggs aether, Scoria often would be doing simple tasks, sitting at home, reading the paper, and objects around her would explode in a cloud of red. She was plagued with migraines and flashes of the hate and rage of the wyrm. Visions and feelings about dragons or people she’d never met, as well as some she had, namely Estinien. After returning from Kugane and to Ala Mhigo, the problem only grew and Scoria sought out the one person who knew Nidhogg best: Estineien himself. After some long talks and begging (and some harassment from Tataru) he agreed to help her channel this rage. It was through this she grew to understand him more as a person and in turn, herself.

It was through Dragoon that Scoria finally found her true strength. It felt almost natural to her, channeling the energy of dragons and releasing it on her opponents on the battlefield. She felt swift and powerful, almost unstoppable. It was through this that she finally found a love of fighting and challenge, no longer the meek woman she once was. Her tall frame now posed to give her an advantage, having the strength to back it up.

While on the first, after being filled with so much light that she nearly became a sin eater, Nidhoggs rage and anger finally dissipated. There was so much white aether, it completely burned out any trace of him left inside her, transforming her dragoon gear and lance a brilliant white and brass color. Dancer- Scoria was never one for sexuality or showing much in the way of skin (or scales). Her parents had made it very clear from a young age how she should present herself at all times, so these desires were often suppressed, choosing to wear clothing that covered most of her body.

After marrying her husband Kahdan, she felt he did so many things for her to make her happy, she wanted to do something for him in return. Hearing about a trope of dancers in town, she went and met with them to learn more. While she didn’t gain too much in the way of sexual confidence, it did help her at least look like she did. Unable to fully commit to the relieving dresses of the other dancers, she did still find an outfit that showed off more skin than what she was used to.

Her husband, supportive as ever, purchased her an outfit in his favorite colors to wear. It was hardly clothes at all, Scoria struggled with the idea mentally of going out and being seen in something like that. Still, from time to time, as a way to help build that confidence, she would go out with him in it, completely red faced and usually hiding behind him as to not be seen. Dark Knight- Ardbert after melding with Scoria’s soul would often stay up at night talking to her. Because they were essentially a part of each other, she would confide her deepest, darkest, fears to him. Sometimes willingly, sometimes because he would find himself wandering in her dreams, unable to escape them. He realized her deep seeded fears about her own inadequacy. That she felt ill-equip to be the savior of not only his world, but her own. That she was tired of always being everyone’s hero. That she missed the days of painting in her flat with her room mate Alha, when she was no one. She even had some resentment for her friends and the common folk for relying on her so much. He helped show these subconscious thoughts to her. He brought them to the forefront, but did not shame her for it, explaining how he went through something very similar and how the hate that his own people felt for him harmed him even after his death. Ardbert guided her to his own dark knight stone, buried and gone from the eyes of others. He had her learn how to channel these dark thoughts and feelings into fighting. Taking the resentment she felt deep in her heart and turning it into a shield to protect herself and others. While these feelings never truly left, understanding them more did help. She would talk more openly about these problems with those she loved and found that she had to carry much less burden that way, literally and figuratively.

Island Sanctuary- No real story here, outside of Im pretty sure this is where she eventually retires. I just really like this glam.

[duskandcobalt]

Stargirl: Part Two

After a month of waiting, Azriel and Elain find themselves back in the kitchen to bring Elain's sexy vision from stargirl to life.

Ya'll know that SZA lyric "now I'm ovulating and I need rough sex" ?? This is that :)

You can read this as a standalone but if you did miss the first part, it's linked above xx

Read on AO3

4.6k words - explicit, 18+ pls

...

One month since she’d had that vision and Elain could still hardly look Azriel in the eye. In fact, she had taken to doing absolutely everything in her power to avoid him because even being in the same room as him for any longer than a couple minutes made her heart race in a way that she was sure would lead to her untimely death, immortal fae body or not.

She’d managed to suppress the memory of that morning, had pushed it just far back enough in her mind to allow her to carry out her day to day activities without remembering how he’d felt inside her. It had worked for a while but for the past few days, that stupid vision was all she could think about.

His scent was everywhere in this house, lingering in every nook and cranny - somehow clinging to her to the point where she could smell his rich cedar scent even as she lay in her own bed each night, trying to ignore the ever growing ache between her thighs. Much like she was doing right now.

 It was a different kind of torture - knowing exactly what it feels like to have sex with someone without actually having sex with them.

Elain drags her hands over her face in an attempt to regulate whatever the hell was happening to her mind and body. She thought hard, counted the days carefully… she was due for her cycle soon - had been preparing tonics with the twins to help ease the unbearable pain. She hadn’t noticed the first time she’d experienced her cycle in this body… maybe because she’d been in such a state following everything that had happened after the war that any shred of desire had been buried under the dark cloud that had seemed to follow her. But now that the cloud had lifted and she had clarity on her powers, Elain wondered if that primal need to be touched which she’d felt as a human on the days leading up to her monthly cycle hadn’t amplified in the same way as the pain. 

That had to be it. That had to be the explanation behind the intensity of the thoughts that had been plaguing her for the past three days. Thoughts so overwhelming that it was as if the floodgates had opened and all the images that she’d pushed back over the past few were hitting her at full force, all at the same time. She couldn’t concentrate on anything, had been pacing around the house like a mad woman - channelling her rampant energy into cleaning every surface in sight as if it would somehow simultaneously erase the memory of all the filthy things Azriel had said to her in her vision.

She needed a distraction immediately, needed to keep her body and mind busy.

… 

Azriel watched from the doorway of the kitchen, slightly amused and somewhat concerned, as Elain furiously scrubbed a rag over what looked to be an already spotless surface. He’d heard her storm down the stairs a little while ago. Her footsteps, usually near silent, had been so loud that they’d been audible even from the floor above hers. 

He couldn’t help himself when he rolled out of bed shortly after her, not even bothering to put a shirt on before silently making his way downstairs. He wouldn’t let his shadows take this task, needed to see for himself that she was okay. 

Elain’s hair fell in soft waves down her back, shielding the smooth expanse of bare skin left uncovered from the way her nightgown scooped low in the back. The cotton slip fell to just below her knees, the white fabric glowed golden from the light of the few candles that were scattered around the kitchen. The outline of her body was just visible through the thin material.

Azriel wasn’t stupid… didn’t need his shadows to know that she’d been avoiding him ever since that morning last month. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, wouldn’t stay in the same room as him for any longer than absolutely necessary. The one time his fingers accidentally brushed hers when he passed her a dish at dinner just two nights ago, she’d blushed so profusely and fled the dining room almost immediately, claiming that she’d forgotten something in the kitchen only to come back empty handed a few minutes later.

 He might've found her behaviour funny if he didn’t miss her so damn much. 

Things had changed after that day, after those thirty seconds. He hadn’t realised how the quiet moments they shared had functioned much like his siphons - tempering the tension between them into something manageable. Without the outlet of their conversations, the tension had become unbearable. But even if missed her, he didn’t blame her. It wasn’t like he’d been able to get that moment out of his mind either.

She’d been making cinnamon rolls for him, explaining why she preferred to grind the spice herself when her eyes had glazed over and she’d stopped speaking mid sentence. Azriel’s entire body had tensed, dread flooding him as he prepared for the worst. He’d witnessed her have a few visions before and they’d always been dark, always alluded to something foreboding. Each time, the way she’d go completely still and her breathing would halt, made his own heart stall until the haze lifted and she returned to herself.

This time had been different. 

Elain’s breath had still hitched, her hands went slack and the rolling pin she’d been holding fell to the floor. She had gripped the counter with such force as if she was doing her best to keep herself upright. Then her chest began moving, the rise and fall of her breasts rapidly picking up pace as her eyebrows pulled together.

He was just about to get up and try to get her out of this vision and back to him when her scent hit him, that familiar honey and jasmine, but amplified - something even sweeter. He knew it was the scent of her arousal, had known it immediately but it was further confirmed when her lips parted into a pretty ‘O’ and a soft sound escaped them. His own body had reacted on its own accord to the noises coming out of her mouth only to be rendered absolutely useless seconds later when he heard his name and every inch of him froze in shock. 

“Azriel,” she had breathed, quiet but clear. There was no mistaking it. No pretending that she had said anything else.

The knowledge that she was having a vision about sex was one thing, but knowing that she was seeing him threatened to bring him to his knees. 

Even after she’d come back into her body, after he’d asked her if she was okay, even after Cassian had come down and Elain had fled upstairs -  all he could think of was how much he wanted to hear her make those noises again, how much he wanted to make her say his name like that. For a whole month now, all he thought of when he closed his eyes at night was Elain’s mouth - the colour of her lips. He wondered if he got her out of her dress, if her nipples would match the pink of her lips. If he spread her open, how would the colour of her sex compare?

… 

“Do you see dirt that others can’t with those powers of yours?” Elain jumps at the low voice, her hand landing against her chest in an attempt to calm her heart as she turns to face him. 

She hadn’t realised anyone else was in the house tonight. Feyre and Rhys were away at the cabin, Nesta and Cassian at the House of Wind. She thought Azriel was in the Hewn City for the night but he must’ve come back earlier in the evening without her realising. 

Her stomach tightens, her thighs involuntarily pressing together at the sight of him. He’s shirtless, tan arms crossed in front of his absurdly broad chest as he leans against the doorway to the kitchen. Those godforsaken sleep pants sit low as ever on his hips and Elain tries very, very hard to look away from the outline of what’s underneath them.

“What?” It’s all she can say, the word leaving her lips in an embarrassing squeak as she finally drags her eyes back up to his face. She crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly extremely aware of how thin her nightgown is when she realises where his eyes linger as they sweep over her.

“You’ve been cleaning more than usual.” He answers. “Even things that are already clean… like that countertop.” His chin juts towards the surface she’d just wiped down for the fourth or fifth time tonight.

“There was a… crumb…” She says it like a question, like she doesn’t believe her own lie. 

“Are you going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?” Azriel straightens, his arms falling to his side as he leaves the threshold and walks towards her, stopping just a few feet from where she’s standing. 

Elain draws in a long breath as she tries to make peace with the fact that he clearly isn’t skirting around the topic any longer.

“I don’t… I haven’t been…” 

“You said my name.” He interrupts her fumbling words. “You said my name and then you haven’t been able to look me in the eyes since.”

There it was - the answer to the question that had been haunting her all these weeks. 

She’d said his name. Out loud. 

She’d said his name out loud and he had heard her. Azriel knew that the vision had been about him and she could just about die from embarrassment.

“Tell me what you saw, Elain.” He takes another step forward and her breath catches in her chest. 

The sound of her name from his lips sends a ripple of anticipation through her along with a renewed wave of arousal that she feels high on her thighs. By the slightest flare of his nostrils, she knows he can scent it on her, too. 

“I can’t.” She shakes her head, looks away from his face and looks at his bare chest instead - studies the tattoos there. Another mistake. All she wants is to know what it would feel like to run her fingers over those tattooed muscles.

“You can.” Azriel’s directly in front of her now and the scent of him has her head spinning. It’s all too much to handle and perhaps it’s her hormones but the mortification of him knowing that she’d had a vision about him gives way to pure arousal with the proximity of his body to hers.

“Will you at least tell me if you liked what you saw?” He asks when she still doesn’t say anything. He’s standing so close to her and she’s so dizzy with need that part of her wonders if this is another one of the dreams that have been haunting her nights recently.

Elain nods slowly. Azriel hums, his eyes flicker with something she can’t quite place. He’s silent for a moment, his thumb tracing his full bottom lip. She wants to run her own thumb along it.

“Do you think about it at night? When you’re alone?” His question sends a shiver down her spine. 

She nods again, bites down on her own lip to stop the whimper that threatens to escape her.

“Do you touch yourself when you think about it?” 

“Yes.” Elain breathes - admits to him with that singular word that she often spends her nights in bed with a hand between her thighs, desperately trying to find relief from the ache that plagues her by imagining his fingers in place of her own.

“Show me.”  She gasps as Azriel’s hands land on her waist, fingers pressing into her as he lifts her easily onto the countertop before stepping back. The cold granite is a welcome relief against the burn of her flushed skin. “Show me how you touch yourself when you think of me.” 

Elain can’t believe this is happening. That her vision may actually be coming to fruition. She cannot reconcile in her mind that she’s perched on the kitchen countertop in her sister’s home, her nightgown hitched up around her thighs and Azriel - Azriel! - has just asked her to pleasure herself in front of him. Most of all, she can’t believe that she doesn’t even really hesitate before she slides the white cotton of her dress further up her thighs.

Her desire overrides the thought at the back of her mind that tells her maybe she shouldn’t be doing this. That she has a mate and even if it means nothing to her, that she should figure out that situation before doing whatever this is. But Elain thinks that maybe… maybe if she just does this once, if she allows herself this one moment, this one night, to get it out of her system then she can sort it all out with a clear head afterwards. That maybe if they do this just once, make her vision a reality, they can go back to how easy it was between them before.

She opens her legs just enough to allow her hand to fit in between them and traces a trembling finger over herself. Her cheeks burn when she feels how wet she is and that warmth consumes her entire body when she risks looking at Azriel and sees the hunger written clearly across every inch of him. Those blessed pants of his doing very little to conceal the physical proof of his arousal.

Elain swallows back any lingering shyness and circles the nerves at the apex of her sex twice before she slides two fingers inside herself. She watches as his hazel eyes flit between her face and the hand between her thighs, as if he can’t decide which bit of her to focus on. Her eyes close as she pumps her fingers, savouring the sound of Azriel’s quiet moan at the show she’s putting on for him. 

She drags her arousal up and over her clit, increasing the pressure of her fingers to match the pressure low in her stomach when she feels large hands settle gently above her knees. The callouses and scars are gloriously rough against her supple skin as he moves higher up her legs, one hand sliding in between them. His fingers brush hers - silently asking for permission. Elain removes her hand and spreads her legs wider, offering herself to him.

His eyes catch hers just as he slips one finger inside her. She draws in a sharp breath at the feeling of that singular finger of his stretching her more than two of her own. 

“I’ve thought about this for so long.” His lips brush her throat. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you like this.”

She wants to tell him that she feels the same, that she’s wanted him long before she’d had that vision, but Azriel adds another finger and his thumb presses against her clit and she’s lost for words. His other hand pushes her dress up around her waist before moving down to wrap around one of her calves, bending her leg up so her foot is on the counter. He does the same to the other leg and Elain leans back on her elbows to compensate for the new angle. 

She’s unable to look away as he stands, eyes raking over her as he nudges her knees wider before bending down. His hands are back on her, one spreading her open while two fingers of the other sink back inside her and curl upwards. Their moans combine, echoing through the quiet kitchen when he lowers his mouth and gets a taste of her for the first time, his tongue runs flat up her centre before his lips wrap around her clit.

It only takes a couple minutes under the spell of his tongue before Elain is coming for him, her thighs threatening to close around his head. Azriel takes it all in stride, doesn’t let up until her legs relax and her hands are in his hair pushing him away. 

“Is that what we were doing?” He teases, pressing a kiss to the curve of each hip as he looks up at her. “In your vision?”

“No.” She pants. His hands are running over her thighs, up under her dress. His fingers graze her stomach, trace along the underside of her breasts before his hands are over them, palming them gently. 

“Tell me, then.” He slips his hands around her back, lifts her until she’s sitting up and they’re chest to chest. His face is inches from hers, his eyes lock on hers - he won’t let her look away this time. 

“We…” Elain can’t resist the urge to touch him anymore. She reaches out a hand, traces the black ink on his shoulder and bites back a smile when she feels him tense. “You had me… over the counter.”

Azriel’s eyes darken as he takes in her words.

Elain eases herself down until her feet are on the floor, her nails dig into Azriel’s arm as she stands on shaking legs. She looks up at him, presses her lips to the centre of his chest while her hand travels down between their bodies. She pushes the soft fabric of his pants down, feels the weight of his cock against her stomach through her nightgown. 

Her fingers wrap around him, her small hand barely able to encircle him. She looks down, swallows at the sight of him hard and leaking in her palm. She drags her hand up the thick length of him and tries to figure out how he’ll even fit inside her. 

“You can take it.” He must’ve seen the apprehension in her eyes when they’d widened as she looked at him. “You know you can take it.”

His fingers land on her hips again, turning her so quickly that she doesn’t even register what’s happening until he presses on the small of her back and leans her forward until she’s bent over the counter. His back hovers over hers, his lips drag along her shoulder and up her neck until his teeth gently close around her earlobe. “Is this how you want it?”

“Please.” Elain turns her head to look at him over her shoulder and pushes back into him, desperate to finally have him in her.

“So eager.” Azriel grins against her skin, pulling her dress back up her legs until it’s bunched around her waist. His hands are on her ass, fingers kneading into her flesh. “Spread your legs a bit wider for me.”

Elain listens, spreads her legs and pulls herself up onto her tiptoes to compensate for their difference in height. Azriel guides himself along her sex, coats himself in her release, and settles the broad head of his cock at her entrance. 

“If it’s too much, tell me.” He eases in, just an inch - pausing when she curses at the way he stretches her. 

“More.” She tells him, resolute. He’s barely even inside her and it already feels so good, the slight pain of her body adjusting to him only adds to the pleasure. “I can take it.” 

Elain turns her head to the side, sees the reflection of them mirrored in the dark window. She has the fleeting thought that maybe they shouldn’t be doing this in the kitchen, in front of a window where anybody could see them. The thought disintegrates when she watches Azriel sink into her in one drawn out movement until his hips are flush against her backside. 

He groans, somehow pushing in just a little further until there’s no space between their bodies at all and then he starts moving - gives her long, teasing strokes that has her anxious for more. 

“Fuck, Elain.” Azriel’s fingers dig into her hips and she prays that the imprint of them lingers long after this encounter ends. She wants the proof that this happened to stay with her. “So wet, so fucking tight for me. How am I supposed to hold back when you feel like this?”

“Don’t.” She pleads, pushes back hard against him to prove her point. “Don’t hold back.”

His teeth graze her shoulder as his hands settle on the counter beside hers right as he thrusts in again, the momentum sends her surging forward, cold granite presses hard against her nipples. The strap of her nightgown falls off her shoulder as her hands slam against the smooth stone to keep her from collapsing completely.

“Like that?” The hint of arrogance in his tone tells her he already knows the answer. 

“More.” She grits out. 

The assurance with which she says it is all he needs before he complies, picking up his pace as he fucks her. His lips move against her ear, talking her through it.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this? To fuck you like this? Do you have any idea how many times I’ve thought about the way your pretty little cunt would feel around my cock?”

Elain whimpers at his words. The language he uses causes her to clench around him.

“It’s even better than I imagined.” His pace is relentless. Elain’s nails scratch at the surface as she fights for leverage. 

She’s already close when she feels his hand land sharply on her ass, the sound of the slap coupled with the light sting forces a small scream out of her. 

“Again.” She demands, surprising even herself - she hadn’t expected that she’d like that so much.

“Greedy girl… you like it rough like this, do you?” His palm lands against her with a little more force. “Want me to fuck you so hard that you think of my cock with every step you take tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes! Harder, Azriel. Please!” Elain begs him.

“Fuck.” Azriel moans as his hand meets her ass again hard enough that her skin goes pink. “Say that again.” 

“Harder.” Elain repeats, waits for the impact.

“No.” Azriel delivers a particularly hard thrust as his hand makes contact with her ass for the fourth time. He rubs over the ghost of a mark that remains on her skin, soothing it before bringing his hand down again. “Say my name.”

“Azriel.” She breathes, attempting to catch her breath. 

“Louder, Elain.” The demand in his voice has her arching her back, trying to get him even deeper inside her.

“Azriel!” She moans, louder this time. His name from her lips sets him off, has him well and truly fucking her, hard and fast, just like she’s begging him to until she’s unable to do anything else except shout his name. “Fuck, fuck… Azriel!” 

“That’s it, Elain. Scream for me, I don’t care who hears.” She feels his tongue on her neck, marking her. “Let everyone know who’s fucking you like this, yeah? Let everyone know you’re mine. Tonight, you’re mine.” 

Sex had been fine for her previously, occasionally it had even been good, but this - in this new body, with him. There was nothing like it. It’s somehow better than her vision - every sensation that she had felt was nothing compared to what she was experiencing now. Everything had intensified. The sound of skin meeting skin was louder, the burn in her calves and core even greater. The weight of him on top of her was even heavier, felt even better.

The feeling is incomprehensible. The way he fills her, the friction of his cock sliding in and out of her sex. The pure pleasure that’s quickly building low in her stomach as he angles his hips up and brings a hand in between her thighs, circling her clit. The rasp of her voice, the way her screams echo through the kitchen - through the empty house - as she comes around him. It’s all so obscene, so perfectly right.

“Good girl. You’re so fucking good for me.” Azriel praises her, fingers still moving in soft circles against her until she relaxes around him, until her breath steadies.

Elain almost cries at the emptiness she feels when he abruptly pulls out of her, his hand lightly fisting her hair to pull her up and turn her around. Her nightgown is completely askew, her breasts half exposed to the cool night air. 

Azriel makes quick work of getting her on the floor, laying her on her back as he settles back in between her legs. She draws her knees up, wraps her legs around his waist, pulls him closer. He threads his fingers through hers as he brings their joined hands above her head. “I need to see your pretty face when you come for me this time.”

She wasn’t sure if she even could come again but she’s still so sensitive from her last orgasm that when he enters her again and hits that spot inside her at the same time his pelvis makes contact with her clit, her body goes taut. This release hits her even harder than the second and she cries out his name. It’s so overwhelming that actual tears form in the corner of her eyes. Azriel’s hands clutch hers tighter, pinning her down as his own rhythm starts to falter.

“I’m right there with you.” His voice is strained. “Gonna come so deep inside you. Would you like that, Elain? Want me to come in you?” 

“Yes.” Elain replies without an ounce of hesitation, her eyes burning into his. “Make me yours.”

She doesn’t take her eyes off him as he finishes, as his hips slam tight against hers. She studies the beautiful planes of his face, the way his lips form her name - commits to memory the way he moans it as he comes. He’s buried so deep inside her that she can feel the way his cock twitches as he fills her. He gives her so much of himself that she feels it drip down her thighs even before he pulls out of her.

Azriel presses a kiss to her cheek, carefully untwining his hands from hers as he sits back on his heels and kneels in between her legs. Elain raises up onto her elbows to watch as he brings two fingers between thighs. She lets out a quiet cry at the feeling of his fingers gliding over her overstimulated sex, collecting their combined arousal. 

When he brings his fingers up to her mouth, she opens for him. Wraps her lips around them and sucks. Their eyes are still locked as she licks his fingers clean.

“So beautiful.” Azriel whispers, withdrawing his fingers from her mouth. He cups the side of her neck with that same hand and lowers his lips to hers for the first time.

It should’ve been the last time, too. 

One night. One time. That’s what she’d told herself just a little while ago. It was stupid, really, to think that was even a possibility.

“Elain?” Azriel’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts and back to reality, as it alway seemed to do..

“Hm?” She hums, their faces are barely an inch apart. He pulls her up and into his lap, holds her close to him. Her legs wrap around his waist, her arms drape around his shoulders. 

“What’s your preferred cleaning solution because I think the counter might be in need of a clean.” 

Elain can’t help but laugh at the small smirk on his face. She’s amused but also relieved, so thankful that he’s back to interrogating her. So grateful that they can resume these easy moments and their shared laughter. 

“I’m partial to vinegar…” She bites her lip, her eyes flickering down to his lips. “But I don’t think it’s clean up time just yet.” 

“No?” Azriel’s unable to hold back his smile. 

“No.” Elain shakes her head, slotting her mouth over his for their second kiss. 

Once was never going to be enough. 

[hotdfic]

A Daughter For A Son

A/N : ahaha sooo dark content, blades, blood and more !

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The dim torchlight flickered in the narrow passage beneath the Red Keep, casting long shadows across stone walls that had seen secrets and whispers for centuries. Daemon Targaryen’s cloak whispered against the damp stone, his steps steady and determined. In the darkness of a forgotten corner, a small figure awaited him, half cloaked in shadow—the ratcatcher of King’s Landing, men as elusive as the rodents they hunted.

“You know why I’m here.” Daemon’s voice was low, just above a murmur.

The ratcatcher’s eyes gleamed with something between fear and intrigue. He inclined his head, the grease-stained cloth hood slipping back to reveal a face more familiar with grime than sunlight.

“She’s kin, isn’t she?” he ventured, a hint of disbelief coloring his words. “One of your blood, the second youngest targaryen of viserys and queen alicent.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, the violet depths becoming cold as ice. “She’s a threat to all that I seek to build. My kin, yes. My blood… perhaps. But loyalty? Hers has never been clear.”

The ratcatcher’s fingers twitched at the mention of betrayal. His knowledge of hidden passages and secret exits made him one of the most dangerous men in the Keep—not because of his strength but because of his reach. He looked up, waiting.

“If I choose this path,” the ratcatcher whispered, “it must be with precision. The girl is young… fragile, as I’ve seen.”

Daemon’s gaze held steady. “She’s weak. And weakness, when unchecked, can rot the entire tree. You are to approach her subtly. No blades, no noise… only shadows. Fear can be as potent as any poison.”

The ratcatcher nodded, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Consider it done, my prince.”

As Daemon turned to leave, the ratcatcher’s voice followed him down the corridor. “You may find her weak, my prince, but even the weakest rat can bite when it feels threatened.”

Daemon’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Then make sure she never has the chance.”

-

Back inside the Red Keep, Lyanna’s hands trembled as she walked through the corridors of the Red Keep. She could feel something watching her, something unseen and insidious, a shadow waiting just out of sight. For days, she’d been plagued by a growing unease, the weight of eyes she couldn’t place, footsteps that vanished the moment she turned her head. But tonight, the walls themselves seemed to close in, and every flickering torch cast her shadow longer and darker.

Her chest grew tight, a cold knot settling in her stomach as the breath escaped her lips in short, shallow gasps. She had thought herself strong—resilient, even—but tonight, the very air felt thick, suffocating her as if it held secrets it dared not reveal.

“I… I’m safe,” she whispered to herself, hugging her arms close. Her words barely broke the silence, her voice trembling. “There’s nothing here. It’s just the dark… it’s only shadows.”

But the comforting words she forced upon herself only seemed to echo mockingly in her ears. Her vision blurred, and a heavy wave of dizziness washed over her. She stumbled against the wall, clutching at the stone for support, as the world spun around her.

A dark figure lingered in her thoughts, the silhouette of someone with eyes sharp as daggers. She tried to shake it off, to ground herself, but the thought persisted, burrowing deeper until it clawed at her mind like a feverish dream.

“Daemon,” she murmured, the name slipping out before she could catch it.

A shudder wracked her body as she slid down the wall, knees pulled to her chest. Her breathing became more erratic, the sounds around her intensifying—the creak of floorboards, the hum of distant voices. She was trapped, drowning in the very corridors that had been her home. She didnt know what was happening but she could sense her uncle,

She clamped her hands over her ears, trying to block out the haunting whispers that seemed to linger in the shadows, whispers of secrets she feared to know, of dangers she couldn’t bear to face. The pressure in her chest mounted, tightening like a vice.

Tears began to slip down her cheeks, mingling with the chill sweat on her skin. She was lost, adrift in the suffocating darkness, unable to find a way out of the terror that gripped her heart.

-

Daemon returned to his chambers, a heavy silence settling around him as he shut the door. He poured a goblet of wine, letting the sharp taste linger on his tongue as he considered the delicate web he’d woven. The Red Keep was filled with those who could whisper secrets, but it took true skill to turn those whispers into fear—something to gnaw at a person’s very spirit.

Lyanna had always been a complication. Young, innocent, and unpredictable, she stirred sympathy among those who found her weakness endearing. But for Daemon, the price of compassion was too high. He had no room for softness in his plans. His gaze fell on the map spread across his table, a map of Westeros littered with marks indicating power plays, alliances, and—of course—threats.

She was small, a single piece on the grand board, but if she fell… it would send a message.

"Blood may bind us, but loyalty binds us stronger," he whispered to himself, fingers tracing the edge of the map.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He strode across the room, nodding to the silent messenger who handed him a folded slip of paper. The seal was broken—no doubt by the ratcatcher himself.

“Her mind is weakening,” it read in scrawled, hasty ink. “Queen Rhaenyra will earn her throne.”

Daemon crumpled the note, his satisfaction marred by an unusual pang. He was a Targaryen, after all, and the family’s legacy was as precious to him as his own blood. Yet his pride and ambition told him otherwise: Lyanna was a risk to his wifes throne he could no longer afford.

-

The silence in Lyanna’s room was shattered by a faint creak. She opened her eyes, heart pounding as the familiar dread seeped into her veins. There, standing beside her bed, was a ratcatcher, a wicked glint in his eyes and a dagger gleaming in his hand. This time, he wasn’t lingering in the shadows or playing games; he was here to finish it.

“Stay quiet, princess,” he murmured, his voice like oil sliding across stone. He brought the dagger closer, the tip hovering just above her throat.

Panic surged through her as her hands gripped the bedsheets, knuckles white with terror. She tried to stay silent, tried to keep calm, but her instincts screamed otherwise. With a sudden, fierce defiance, she took a deep breath and let out a scream—loud, piercing, enough to cut through the stillness of the night.

“HELP!”

The ratcatcher’s face twisted with rage as he pressed the blade closer to her throat, his eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he hissed. “Now you’ll be—”

The door burst open, and Ser Criston Cole stormed into the room, his sword already drawn. His gaze swept the scene, taking in Lyanna’s terrified expression and the ratcatcher’s weapon raised against her.

“Step away from her!” Criston’s voice was low, deadly. The ratcatcher hesitated, his grip tightening, but before he could respond, another figure appeared in the doorway.

Aemond.

His eye blazed with fury as he took in the sight of his sister, held at knifepoint by a man who dared to lay hands on her. In a blur, he unsheathed his sword, the steel gleaming with lethal intent as he moved forward.

“You’ve chosen your last target, you coward,” Aemond snarled, his tone as cold and sharp as winter’s edge. His eye never left the ratcatcher, his steps deliberate and deadly.

Trapped between two armed men, the ratcatcher’s confidence wavered. He tried to shift his grip on the knife, pressing it a fraction closer to Lyanna’s skin in a desperate bid to maintain control. But in that instant, Criston lunged, his sword slicing down to knock the dagger from the ratcatcher’s hand. The blade clattered to the floor, and before the man could react, Aemond was upon him.

Aemond’s fist collided with the ratcatcher’s jaw, sending him sprawling backward. The assassin scrambled to his feet, but Criston blocked the doorway, his sword leveled and ready. The ratcatcher glanced between the two, realizing too late that he was trapped.

“Did you think you'd get away after murdering my sisters children? And now my sweet sister?” Aemond’s voice was deadly calm as he advanced on the man, his sword pointed at the ratcatcher’s heart.

Lyanna’s breaths came in shuddering gasps as she scrambled away, watching with wide eyes as Aemond and Criston cornered her assailant.

The ratcatcher’s face twisted with defiance as he spat at Aemond, his voice laced with venom. “This was never about you, princeling. Your sister is the one who threatens the plans of those far greater than you.”

Aemond’s expression darkened, the fury simmering just beneath his calm exterior. With one swift motion, he drove the tip of his blade just close enough to graze the ratcatcher’s chest.

“Who sent you?” Aemond demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The ratcatcher sneered, even as his face paled. “I serve loyalties that you would never understand,” he muttered, his gaze defiant.

Aemond’s eye narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might drive the sword through the man’s heart then and there. But instead, he nodded to Criston, who stepped forward, grabbing the ratcatcher by the collar and dragging him toward the door.

“We’ll get answers soon enough,” Criston said, casting a reassuring glance back at Lyanna. “You’ll be safe now, princess.”

As the door closed behind them, Lyanna’s fear slowly began to ebb, leaving behind a sense of shock and exhaustion. Her heart was still pounding, but she looked up to find Cristons’s gaze fixed on her, his face mimicking a worried father.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his tone gentle as he knelt beside her.

She shook her head, swallowing back the tears that threatened to fall. “No… no, I’m fine,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. “Thank you, Sir Criston..”

Aemond walked out with blood dripping from his sword, approaching Lyanna he brought his sister into a hug and kissed her forehead.

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

The Dangers of Hope Ch. 5

Series Summary: When Y/N shows up at Camp Chitaqua with her little girl in tow, her bloodshot eyes leave no doubt that she's infected. Or is she? Everything Dean has come to know for certain over the last five hellish years, is about to be challenged.

Pairings/Characters in the series: Endverse!Dean x Reader, Emma (OFC), Castiel, Sam Winchester, Lucifer, Michael, Zachariah, Risa, Johnston (OMC), Patrick (OMC), Theresa (OFC), other survivors and soldiers.

Series Explicit 18 +/Warnings: Show level violence, some gore, angst, smut, fluff all the usual for a series of mine. ❤️ Endverse!Dean (that's a warning for his anger and callousness as well as his extreme hotness. 😁) Each chapter will have their own specific warnings.

Chapter Warnings: Nothing major.

Word Count: 5,402

A/N: So, I've had this idea for quite a while. Basically since I watched The Last of Us. I loved Pedro in the role of Joel, but I kept thinking how incredible Jensen would have been. Which then made me think of how amazing he was as Endverse!Dean which then led me to this idea. Lol! I've stolen the premise of Ellie's storyline from TLOU, but made her a grown up, a reader insert, and a love interest for Dean.

If you've never seen TLOU, don't worry - you don't need to have seen it to understand this story. 😊

I've taken some liberties with the Endverse in my story, changed a few things from canon, but kept lots of things too.

I sincerely hope you enjoy the story. It will be ten chapters and I will do my very best to post one chapter every weekend. ❤️

A/N 2: Sorry, this chapter is a bit longer than usual, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. 😘

Series Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

The dividers below were created by @saradika

Over the next two weeks, Dean did whatever he could to avoid being around Y/N.  He was determined that the morning at the river was simply going to be a weird one off. It was some kind of reaction to Y/N’s unfamiliar presence. Her emotions and her rose-colored outlook on the world had contaminated him somehow. 

He didn’t know why, but there was something about her that always made him question his decisions, constantly rework his plans. She just brought something out in him, so he stayed the hell away from her as much as possible.

He knew she’d set up the school and begun teaching. But there again, she’d made him change his plans. The plan had been to use the sheds behind the cabin for storage; that was the whole reason for building them! 

But apparently Y/N had worked her magic with Brandy and before he knew it the sensible, practical woman had him convinced to let Y/N and the kids take up one of their very limited storage spaces, just to sit around doing algebra and reading poetry - or whatever she was teaching them. 

It was ridiculous. 

But even though he avoided her during the day, there was no turning off his brain at night, when he closed his eyes and visions of her soft curves and the memory of her silky skin beneath his fingers plagued his thoughts. He told himself to smarten up, that he had so many more important things to be thinking about. 

He decided he just needed sex; it had been too long. So one night he showed up in Risa’s tent after midnight and she opened her arms to him the way she always did. 

But as he kissed her and moved his hands over her body, her gentle sighs and soft moans weren’t doing what he needed them to, and he realized he was being an asshole trying to replace one woman with another. Risa was a good soldier and she’d been a soft place for him to land too many times to just use her as a distraction. 

So he got up and left, giving her a lame excuse, “I forgot I have to be up early tomorrow to…go over things with Johnston.” He tried not to notice Risa’s frown. He couldn't tell if she was mad or sad, and he didn't really want to stick around to find out. 

As the days moved on, he realized it was next to impossible to completely avoid Y/N, whether day or night. Because no matter how he tried to ignore her, he saw her influence everywhere. He could sense a shift in the air, he swore people were smiling more and every once in a while, he could hear kids laughing loudly.

That was a foreign sound nowadays, and it unnerved him. And smiling seemed foolish. What was there to smile about? Being happy just invited tragedy. He knew in the old days he would have been called a pessimist. But he was simply being a realist as he'd always been. He called things as they were, and he wasn't about to let a pretty smile and a bouncy attitude change that.

One evening, about a month after Y/N arrived at the camp, Dean was headed to the storage shed to take a thorough inventory before they left the next day on a raid - one of their last before the snows came in mid November. He knew they were gonna need more propane than what they had stored in order to run the generator over the winter. The generator ran the fridge and freezer where they kept their food stored. 

It could also power the electricity in the big cabin for a little while if needed. There had been nearly a week last winter that had been so piercingly cold that they’d all needed to jam themselves into the cabin and run the electric heat as much as possible. It had simply been too cold for the little camp stoves in the tents; the wood-burning stoves just couldn’t generate enough heat to combat the intense cold that seeped through the thick canvas walls. 

So their generator had saved them, and it ran on propane, which meant they needed more than enough to last through another possible cold snap.

Dean had deliberately waited to start the task until it was nearly sundown since the school would be empty by then and he could avoid running into the teacher that worked there. 

But as he approached the small building he could see a wavering light in the window - a lamp moving towards him. Before he could turn and leave (he wasn’t going to call it running away) Y/N stepped out into the semi-darkness and gasped as she saw him standing there.

She put the hand not holding the kerosene lamp to her chest. “Oh my lord!” She breathed out raggedly. “You scared me half to death.” But she was chuckling as she said it and walked closer to him.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I uh…I thought you’d be gone.” He knew he sounded slightly accusatory. “Why are you still here? Haven’t the kids been gone for hours?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. I came back to put up the gift we got from Tom Richardson.” She waved him towards the building behind her. “You should come see the school.”

Dean shook his head. “No, I’ve got…I have to -”

She cut him off with wide, pleading eyes. “Please?” She added a bright, imploring smile and Dean shook his head. Why was he even bothering to say no to her at this point? He gestured for her to lead the way into the little building and he followed at a distance. 

They walked in and she set the lamp on the small table in the corner and turned it up full so that it completely lit up the tiny room. She held her arms out to the sides, showing off her little schoolroom with pride.

“What do you think?”

He shook his head. “It’s uh…pretty empty.” He said looking around. 

Y/N shrugged and seemed a little deflated. “It’s a work in progress.”

Dean grunted his acknowledgement and continued his sweep of the room. On the floor against the back, Northern, wall were a couple of piles of wool blankets, and right above them was a mural of multicolored leaves stuck to the wall. 

When she saw him looking at it and frowning, Y/N explained. “I got the kids to find a bunch of pretty, fallen leaves, and then we used some tree sap as glue to stick them up. I got to teach them a little bit about trees and ecosystems, and we also made something pretty to hang on the wall.”

He nodded at the blankets. “Is that where the kids sit?”

“Yeah.” She said with another shrug. “We’re a little packed in, but it keeps us warm. The blankets just take the chill out of the floor and make it a bit softer to sit on.”

Dean nodded absently and looked left, his eye catching on the only other object in the room. It was a paper map hanging on the western wall, held in place by two small nails. 

Dean frowned again. “Is that a map of America?”

Y/N nodded excitedly. “Yeah, that was the gift from Tom Richardson. It was so kind of him. His son, Jonah is a sweet little guy, but I guess he’s been pretty quiet over the last year or so. He lost his mom just before he and Tom got to Chitaqua?” She said, clearly using the words as a question to see if he knew who she was talking about.

Dean nodded, a vague recollection coming to his mind of a big burly guy and a scrawny little kid. He remembered thinking the guy would be a hard worker, and the kid probably wasn’t gonna make it. He’d looked pretty sick.

Y/N continued. “Well, I guess since he started school he’s been talking more in the evenings, even asking Tom questions about The Knights of the Round Table. I’ve been sharing some of the legends with them this week. So, Tom was grateful and as a thank you, he gave us this map that he’d kept tucked away in his backpack all this time. Said it made him feel peaceful to look at it and remember better times. But he thought we could use it more.”

She smiled wistfully and gazed at the slightly ratty map.

“Why?” Dean asked with a slight jolt in his gut. He waved at the map. “It’s not like this anymore.”

Y/N nodded and lowered her gaze to the ground. “Yeah, I know, but the general shape of the country is still the same, and I can use it as half geography, half history.”

When she looked back up at him, her face was set in lines of disappointment. She waved her hand to encompass the whole hundred and fifty square feet. “You don’t like it?” She asked with a weak chuckle.

Dean shrugged. “No it's, I mean, it’s fine. You know, work in progress, like you said.”

Y/N nodded and smiled, looking a little bolstered. “Yeah, slow but sure. And you know,” her smile turned shy, “I’ve really wanted to thank you for giving up the space for the school, I know this wasn’t what the shed was earmarked for.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, Brandy made sense. Can’t have the kids wandering around outside after the cold comes.”

Y/N frowned. “I’ve wanted to thank you, but every time I’ve looked for you, I seem to have just missed you.”

Dean scowled defensively. “Just busy.” 

Y/N nodded.

“Well look,” Dean said, backing away, “I gotta get to…stuff.” He shook his head. “I mean, we’re leaving on a raid tomorrow and I gotta prepare for it.”

“Oh, be careful.” Y/N said, biting her lip in concern.

It was far too hard for Dean to rip his eyes away from where her teeth sunk into the satiny sweep of her bottom lip. But he jerked his head up and then spun away as he answered her. “Always am.”

***

The raid was successful; in fact it was one of the most successful ones they’d ever had. They’d traveled all the way to St. Louis, hoping to find some gas stations there that hadn’t been picked clean. But they had no luck. Since going home empty-handed wasn’t an option, they went North to Springfield and hit the jackpot. 

They found an old Costco on the outskirts of the city that had barely been hit. They filled and loaded up enough propane tanks to see them through the winter and then some. 

They also loaded up as much food as they could, and even found some usable meds left in the pharmacy there. They grabbed clothes and kitchen things like plates and pots, utensils, also managing to find a few things that had become rare and quite precious, like eyeglasses and sunglasses. They also found spare tires and car parts, and a few simple pieces of practical furniture. They took as much as they could load into the back of two trucks and a Jeep. 

Dean packed up one more big box, setting it on top of the others; it was just something he thought might come in handy. He refused to think too long about why he’d gathered together the things in the box.

They made it back to camp less than two days after they left, a record for a raid. They usually took a week or more because they had to scavenge through a bunch of different cities, and fight off masses of Croats. But this time, they didn't see any Croats at all, and they'd scored an incredible haul quickly, which meant that, barring some kind of catastrophe, they wouldn't have to go out again until the snow melted. 

They pulled into the camp around noon and Dean spent a few hours helping to unload the trucks and organize where everything went. When the campers saw the piles of booty in the trucks, people actually started clapping. An air of joviality pervaded as they all worked together to put things away until the next day. At which point they'd begin accounting for it all, sharing what was needed immediately, and then safely storing away the rest. 

Y/N and her students left their little schoolroom to come help as well and the kid’s eyes were wide and excited, looking at everything that had been brought back as though it was Christmas Eve. 

When everything was unloaded, Dean grabbed the box he’d put aside and brought it to Y/N who’d returned to the school to drop off the two folding chairs she’d claimed for the classroom.

He knocked on the open door, grateful for the hard wood beneath his knuckles this time. Y/N turned to face him and her eyes were almost as bright and excited as the kids’.

“Hi!” She said enthusiastically. “Wow, you guys sure brought home the bacon on this raid!”

Dean shook his head. “No bacon. It was fairly rancid.”

Y/N chuckled lightly and scrunched up her nose. “Yeah, wise decision to leave that behind.”

Dean nodded and set the big box on the plywood floor with a heavy thump. “This is for you. For the school.” He amended.

Y/N looked a bit dumbfounded for a moment and her eyes got even rounder before she dropped to her knees and pulled open the flaps of the box. 

When she saw what was inside her gasp was deep and her hands flew to her mouth. She looked up at him in complete shock before reaching reverently into the box to take out one of the books that sat inside.

“Books.” She whispered, as she stared at the paperback in her hands. She reached into the box again and pulled out another book and then another and another until her arms were full of them.

She looked up at him, tears falling and her gaze rapturous. “Oh my god, Dean.”

Dean felt his face flush and he looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just figured the classroom could use ‘em and they were just sitting there on the shelves. There’s a bunch of kids books underneath,” he said pointing inside the box. “And paper and pencils and some crayons, a few coloring books. There weren’t many of them so-”

He was interrupted as Y/N dropped the books back into the box and launched herself at him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed tight. He stood stock still for a minute before he patted her back awkwardly and dropped his arms back to his side.

She pulled back and brushed away her happy tears, sniffling loudly. “Sorry. I just…” She knelt down again and picked up another book, holding it tight to her chest. She shook her head. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed books. It’s been years since I’ve even seen one let alone had the chance to read one.”

She reached in for one of the children’s books and laughed. “Oh my gosh, the kids are gonna be ecstatic.”

Dean shrugged, thoroughly embarrassed by Y/N’s joy and gratitude. He cleared his throat before speaking. “There’s a limited supply of paper and pencils, and I have no idea how long it will be before we find more, if we ever do, so…”

He trailed off and Y/N put the books back into the box and folded the flaps closed again. “So, we’ll be sure to write very tiny, erase a lot, and wear the pencils down to little nubs.” She said as she stood and bent to heft the box up from the floor. Dean stepped forward to grab it from her as she staggered slightly beneath its weight.

“You’ll break your back.” Dean barked at her as he reached for the box. 

But she just shook her head and turned away with the box still in her arms. “N’ah I’m stronger than I look.” She said, huffing and puffing as she dropped it onto the table. 

Dean shook his head. Yeah, I bet you are. He thought.

After a moment Y/N turned and walked slowly back towards him. “So, I can’t exactly buy you dinner as a thank you. But if you bring your rations over to our tent, I can cook them all up for us.”

She smiled at him, friendly and sweet, but Dean was backing away. “No, that’s not necessary.”

“I know it isn’t, but it will make me feel good to do this one small favor for you in return for this amazingness.” She said with a wave towards the box.

Dean planned to say no, had it on the tip of his tongue but when he opened his mouth what came out was, “Okay.”

So barely an hour later he found himself sitting at her table with dinner laid out in front of him. It was a sufficiently celebratory meal of salted venison from an eight point buck the camp hunters had taken down in early summer, boiled potatoes, and a can of green beans that was older than Emma.

It was the best meal Dean had eaten in a long time.  

After the food was finished and the dishes were washed, Y/N made them a cup of coffee and he sat drinking it as she settled Emma into bed with a kiss. His stomach was full of decent food, the coffee smelled old but still strong, and the sound of Y/N’s soft voice as she tucked her daughter in, was incredibly soothing. He found himself relaxing into his chair in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. His muscles lost some of their rigidity and he breathed out a long sigh, as though he’d been holding his breath for too long.

After a few minutes Y/N came back to the table and sat down with her own soft exhale. She took a sip of her coffee and then looked at Dean over the rim of her tin cup. “You know, I don’t think you really understand what you’ve done here.”

Dean cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, questioning her. She smiled and set down her cup, shifting slightly in her chair.

“Since all of this started, we’ve been on the move, Emma and I. In the beginning, when Emma was still a baby, I’d come across different groups of people and we’d travel together for a while or we’d manage to hole up somewhere for the winter and wait out the cold together. But inevitably the groups always fell away; sometimes we’d just decide to go in separate directions, but sometimes animosity or greed would take over and violence would erupt. People would fight over who was in charge and they’d fight over resources.” Y/N shook her head. “It almost always ended up a disaster.”

She shrugged. “So after a while, I just lit out on my own with Emma. It was scary as hell, of course - no back up, no partners, all on my own with a four year old. But it also meant no one stealing my stuff, or throwing me to the wolves at the first sign of trouble.” 

She took another sip of coffee and Dean wondered at the shadows in her usually bright eyes. What stories in her past had created them?

Her voice was soft when she continued. “It’s been incredibly hard and there’s been,” her eyelashes fluttered and closed, “there's been a lot of bad.” 

She set down her cup and sat back in her chair, rubbing at her eyes with her fingers like she was scratching out the images behind her eyelids.

When she looked at him again, her eyes were soft and warm. “So, to come here, to see what you’ve accomplished in just a few years?” Her voice was full of wonder. “Dean, it’s like a miracle. I mean you’ve made it safe here, at least a hell of a lot safer than anywhere else out there - there are guards protecting us! People work together, contribute their skills and strengths for the benefit of the group as well as themselves.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen anything like it in a very long time. What you’ve created here is an oasis.”

Dean snorted at that. “Oasis?” He asked incredulously. Her praise and wonderment made him feel an itchy kind of awkwardness. He didn’t deserve it.

But Y/N was nodding solemnly. “Yes. It’s a safe haven in a world filled with evil. What would you call it?”

Dean took a gulp of coffee and then licked his lips, looking at her for a moment before speaking. “Y/N this is only an oasis in the sense that it’s a mirage in a desert; it’s an illusion. We’re managing to get by through lucky choices and good timing. We push through from day to day, but I’m telling you this whole place could fall apart in an instant. One long, bad, winter, or one coordinated attack from another camp or a pack of Croats, and we’re done.”

He paused to try and let that sink in before continuing. “And the survivors here work together because it’s beneficial to them. But if things get desperate again,” he looked at her pointedly, “don’t think for one second that they'll hesitate to throw you to the wolves like all the others.” He shrugged. “It’s human nature, survival of the fittest, and anyone who thinks otherwise is gonna get trampled.”

He said it as a warning, still determined to dislodge the Pollyanna ideal of good and virtuous humanity from her mind.

But Y/N just smiled and leaned across the table to squeeze his hand. “Guess we’ll see. But in the meantime, you should be proud. No matter what happens, you’ve done good.”

Dean swallowed down the rest of his coffee in one gulp and stood up, pulling his hand away from her warm touch. He was desperate to get away from the softness and understanding in her gaze. He thanked her for cooking dinner and left quickly, promising himself as he walked back to his tent that he wasn’t going to do that again.

But as with most things to do with Y/N that decision didn’t last long, and soon enough that one evening turned into a bit of a ritual. Every few days or so Dean would show up with some of his rations and Y/N would combine them with what they had, and they’d all eat together at their tiny table.

Every time he left her tent, he told himself he’d had his last meal there with Y/N and Emma. Yet within a few days, he’d be back again. He told himself it was just something to break the monotony of camp life, just something a little different from the ordinary.

But the truth was he was beginning to crave the evenings spent across from Y/N, listening to her rattle on about her students and their achievements, or else answering her seemingly endless questions about the camp and how it had come to be. He even enjoyed listening to her talk to Emma, telling her stories before she tucked her in for the night. 

Once the little girl was asleep, Dean usually hightailed it out of there, because without the kid as a buffer it became much harder to ignore Y/N’s inviting lips and tempting curves.

But one night, three weeks after returning home from the raid, Y/N followed him outside as he abruptly left the tent. 

“Dean.” She called after him. 

The sun had set almost an hour before and the night was dark and cold; Dean returned to her side and admonished her. “It’s freezing out here, go back inside.”

Y/N just rubbed her hands up and down her arms and shrugged. “I’m fine.”

He shook his head at her stubbornness, and then waited silently. When she didn’t say anything right away he spread his arms wide.

“What?” He asked impatiently. 

“I just…” Y/N stuttered for a moment. “I just wanted to say that I really like when you come for dinner.”

Dean clenched his jaw as she looked up at him with heat in her gaze, an invitation in her eyes, plain as day. He told himself to walk away but instead, he raised his hand to trail his fingers down her cheek. 

“You should go inside.” He warned her again, even as he lowered his head towards her. “S’cold.”

Y/N shook her head. “I’m very warm.” She smiled and licked her lips and it was his undoing.

He yanked her up against him and crushed her lips with his own. He plundered her mouth with his tongue, inhaling her sweet scent and hardening at the way she clutched the front of his jacket and whimpered softly. He moved his hands so that one clutched at her waist and the other one grabbed hold of the back of her head so he could keep her pressed to him tightly.

He didn't know how long he would have continued kissing her, or whether he might have taken things even further. But luckily there was a loud noise of something crashing somewhere in camp, followed by laughter. 

The sound was like a bucket of cold water being poured on him and Dean ripped himself away from Y/N's mouth. They were both breathing heavily, panting really.

“Fuck.” Dean swore roughly before he turned abruptly and left. He fully admitted to himself that this time, he was definitely running away.

***

Dean barely slept and woke up the next day berating himself for the night before. For fuck’s sake he’d been making out with Y/N with her kid just on the other side of a canvas wall - kissing her in the wide open, where any other camper might have walked by. He didn’t need things to be more complicated than they were already. 

As the morning wore on, he made up his mind to talk to Y/N that very afternoon. He'd just tell her straight out that what happened between them just couldn't happen again. It was only going to confuse things and make everything harder than it needed to be. 

He nodded; he could do this. He was practical and he didn't hem and haw or tiptoe around things. He'd just tell her straight out how things were going to be. 

He knew she'd be in the big cabin as the school day ended, so he walked over and stepped inside the door, hoping she'd be almost done for the day.

Ever since he brought her the books, she'd been reading to the kids at the end of every school day. Parents had started swinging by the school, ostensibly to meet their kids, but really, they wanted to watch their kids' faces and listen to their giggles as Y/N read the stories in funny voices and occasionally got the kids to join her in acting out silliness from the books. 

But the crowd of parents and kids had gotten a bit too big for the tiny schoolroom, so on the last day of every week, Y/N had taken to reading to the kids and parents together in the big cabin. The adults usually sat on the floor behind the kids, keeping their hands busy with mending clothes or knitting, or else they stood at a table and worked on something like repairing holes in tents or making snares for the hunters. The work allowed them to justify their enjoyment of the stories. 

As Dean walked inside now, Y/N was finishing up the storybook in her hand. He could see it was The Paper Bag Princess and Y/N was on the last page.

“‘Ronald’, said Elizabeth, ‘your clothes are really pretty and your hair is very neat.” Y/N read aloud in Elizabeth’s decisive voice. 

“You look like a real prince. But you,” Y/N paused for effect, “are a bum.’”

All the kids were giggling as she read the last line. 

“They didn't get married after all.”

The kids clapped and even the parents were chuckling at the way the paper bag princess had put the snooty prince in his place.

“I love that story!!” A little redheaded girl in the front gushed. 

“It's my mommy's favorite story.” Emma said loudly. “Right Mommy?”

Y/N nodded. “When I was your age for sure.”

Dean pushed away from the wall he was leaning on, trying to signal Y/N so she'd hurry up and finish. But the little girl in the front demanded her full attention as she bounced up to lean against Y/N's knees where she sat in the chair.

“Cause your mommy read it to you?”

Dean was seriously considering ordering everyone out. He wanted to get this over with.

But Y/N's next words stopped him dead in his tracks. 

She was shaking her head as she tucked the little girl's red hair behind her ear. “No, my mommy passed away a long time ago when I was just a baby. So she never really got to read me stories.”

Y/N kept talking, but Dean only heard a hot, pulsing, rushing sound in his ears. A million thoughts were slamming through his mind at once as he felt a cold shiver run through him.

He yelled over the sound of the people around him beginning to chatter and get ready to leave.

“How?”

Y/N looked up at his bellow, her face shocked. “What?”

Dean was aware of his surroundings only just enough to brusquely order everyone out of the cabin.

“Now!” He barked and the mood in the room shifted quickly as parents grabbed up their children and gave The Boss a wide berth as his eyes burned at Y/N like green fire.

Everyone disappeared and it was just Y/N, Dean and Emma left. 

Dean felt his heart hammering in his chest as he took a step back from where she stood. 

Y/N's face was completely confused and clearly perplexed. “Dean what-”

He cut her off. “How?” He bellowed again before swallowing and asking in a slightly quieter tone. “How did your mother die when you were a baby?”

Y/N shook her head. “Why? What are you-”

“Answer me.” Dean's voice wasn't loud, but his words were clipped and he could hear the steel behind his words, feel the cold seeping into his bones as the tumblers in his mind fell into place, opening the lock concealing the reason behind Y/N’s miraculous survival of the virus.

Y/N blinked rapidly for a moment before exhaling slowly. “It was a - a fire. Some kind of electrical short or something.”

“In your nursery.” Dean said softly.

Y/N shrugged, her face scrunched up in confusion. “I'm not sure. My dad didn't really like to talk about it.”

As he stood staring at the woman with the bloodshot eyes, a moment from so long ago, once again from that first time they'd faced the Croatoan virus, materialized in his memory.

Again his brother's face bloomed in his mind, and he heard his own voice speaking.

“I swear I'm gonna lose sleep over this one. I mean why here, why now?”

And Sam's bewildered reply. “And why was I immune?”

Well now he knew why his brother had been immune. Because Yellow Eyes had wanted him to be, to make him a better soldier, a better, more powerful psychic to lead his demon army. And of course, he’d needed to be sure Lucifer's true vessel was strong and able enough to withstand the demon germ warfare he planned to release upon the world as a way to kickstart the apocalypse.

Dean stared at Y/N, angry beyond belief. Angry at her and what she really was, angry at himself for taking so long to figure it out and for falling for her game, and unbelievably angry at the universe for proving once again that it was laughing at him. 

His voice was ice when he spoke. “What kind of psychic are you? What can you do?” He shook his head. “What have you done already?"

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters:

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Dean Fics Only:

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Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom:

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[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Budding Relationships | Sebastian Sallow x OC #28

Art above is by @oladcnfthb on Twitter (thank you to ravenquills for helping me figure out who made this beautiful fanart!)

Summary: While on a date in London with Alaric, Sebastian distracts himself with sixth-year Hufflepuff, Chelsea Featherstone. Regretful of his actions, Sebastian retreats to the Undercroft where he finds a distraught Ominis.

Words: ~11,000

Tags: Explicit Smut, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Mutual Pining, Friends To Lovers, Slow Burn, Longing, Jealousy, Unspoken Feelings, Angst, Romance, Pureblood Politics, Ominis x Anne

Timeline: Early November

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline Read on AO3

Weeks had passed since Evangeline’s unsettling visit to the Ministry, and still, there had been no updates. Every morning, she’d wait for an owl carrying news, her stomach twisting with both hope and dread, but the silence remained unbroken. The Ministry’s promises of “clarity” and “verification” felt increasingly hollow as days turned into weeks. Yet, even as the unanswered questions gnawed at her, she kept herself busy, forcing normalcy into her routine. She had to if she wanted to stay sane.

Her nightmares, however, refused to let her forget. Each night, her sleep was plagued with visions of the repository, the crackling energy and oppressive shadows seeping into her subconscious like an uninvited guest. The figures in her dreams—blurry, indistinct—murmured words she couldn’t understand but instinctively feared. On those nights, she woke drenched in cold sweat, her hands trembling as if the ancient magic that flickered faintly in her dreams still lingered in her veins.

But Evangeline had learned to hide her exhaustion well. A combination of Pepperup Potions and a repertoire of charms kept her looking composed, even as the toll wore her thin.

By November, however, life outside of her nightmares had taken an unexpected turn. After her duel with Alaric, it had taken ample coaxing and teasing persistence, but Evangeline had agreed to go on a proper date with him. At first, she’d been hesitant. Alaric’s role as an auror recruiter at Hogwarts—leading workshops and answering students’ questions about Ministry careers—had made him feel too much like an authority figure. Even after his rounds had ended, the idea of dating someone who had once seemed tied to the Ministry felt odd. She’d told him as much.

“It’s just strange, isn’t it?” she had said that first evening in the Three Broomsticks, her hands fiddling nervously with the edge of her butterbeer glass. “You were here as a... professional. I don’t know—it feels like crossing some invisible line.”

Alaric, ever good-natured, had only laughed. “Evangeline, if anything, I was just a glorified guest lecturer. Besides,” he added with a playful smirk, “And I'm done with that post now. Surely that clears me of any lingering professional ties.”

It had been that lighthearted charm that eventually wore down her reservations, not to mention her never-ending need to convince herself she could get over Sebastian.

Their first few dates were simple—walks through Hogsmeade, dinners at the Three Broomsticks, conversations that left her surprisingly at ease. Alaric had a way of making her forget her worries, his warmth cutting through the storm clouds that seemed to follow her lately.

There was a confidence about him, not cocky but quietly assured, as though he knew exactly how to navigate any situation. From the way he carried himself to the warmth in his deep voice, the way his dark eyes sparkled with humor when he teased her, Alaric was, in many ways, everything she thought she should want.

He was undeniably handsome too, in a way that turned heads without effort. Pale skin framed by neatly combed black hair that fell just above his collar, paired with sharp, angular features that seemed to belong more to an oil painting than a person. His height—easily over six feet—and broad, athletic build gave him a commanding presence, yet his easy smile softened what might otherwise have been intimidating.

As the waiter poured their wine tonight, Alaric thanked the server with genuine warmth, his charm extending even to the most mundane interactions.

“What are you thinking?” Alaric asked, leaning forward slightly. His dark eyes studied her, his smile playful yet tinged with curiosity.

Evangeline blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, nothing,” she lied, taking a sip of her wine to buy herself a moment. “Just… how different this feels. In a good way.”

His brow arched, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Different from what?”

“From everything,” she said quickly, hoping to steer the conversation away from comparisons she didn’t want to vocalize. “I mean, I’ve never really done this before. Dates in London, fancy wine... It’s all new to me.”

Alaric chuckled, his deep voice resonating warmly. “Fancy wine,” he repeated, holding up his glass and giving it a small swirl. “You’re easily impressed.”

She rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he said, his expression softening. “And I’m glad you came tonight. It’s nice to see you like this.”

“Like what?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Relaxed,” he said simply. “You carry a lot on your shoulders, Evangeline. I can see it, even if you hide it well. But tonight, you... seem lighter.”

She hesitated, unsure how to respond. Evangeline had certainly been stressed given the Ministry’s silence and the weight of her unresolved nightmares, and she wasn’t used to someone noticing those parts of her—especially someone she hadn’t known for long. Alaric had a way of making her feel seen in a way that was both comforting and unsettling.

“Maybe it’s the wine,” she said finally, her tone teasing in an attempt to deflect.

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, "Perhaps."

They continued talking, the conversation drifting to lighter topics—his training, her plans after Hogwarts. Alaric shared a story about a chaotic practice duel with one of his instructors, and Evangeline found herself laughing more freely than she had in weeks.

“And that’s how I ended up disarming myself instead of my opponent,” he finished, shaking his head. “Safe to say I didn’t win that round.”

Evangeline laughed, her hand lightly covering her mouth. “I can’t imagine you being anything less than perfect at dueling. You’re practically a walking recruitment poster.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I appreciate that, but even I have my off days.”

“Hard to believe,” she said, still smiling.

His expression softened, his dark eyes meeting hers across the table. "I know I probably sound like a broken record by now, Evangeline, but you really would excel as an Auror."

Evangeline tilted her head slightly, smirking. "I thought you were finished your recruiting rounds."

Alaric chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Fair point," he conceded, a playful glint in his eyes. "But can you blame me? It's hard to turn off the recruiter mode when I see someone with your potential."

Evangeline raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Is that so? Should I be expecting a formal offer letter delivered by owl any day now?"

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Maybe not an offer letter, but perhaps an invitation to consider all your options." He leaned forward slightly, his tone turning more sincere. "I just think you could make a real difference as an Auror. You've got the skill, the instincts, and the courage. It's worth thinking about."

She looked down at her hands, tracing the rim of her glass thoughtfully. "I appreciate that," she said softly. "I'm... well, I'm certainly thinking about it."

"Take all the time you need," he assured her. "No pressure. Just know that whatever you choose, you'll excel."

She smiled appreciatively. "Thank you, Alaric."

When their meals arrived, steak and potatoes for him, and a hearty mushroom risotto for her, the conversation flowed with an easy rhythm. Evangeline found herself relaxing more with each passing moment. Alaric was engaging without being overbearing, his stories peppered with just the right amount of humor to keep her smiling. He had a knack for weaving charm into even the most mundane details of his life, and she couldn’t deny how refreshing it was to be in his company.

“You mentioned Diagon Alley,” Alaric said between bites, his dark eyes glinting with curiosity. “Where’s your favorite spot there?”

Evangeline paused, twirling a forkful of risotto as she considered her answer. “I think it’s a tie between Flourish and Blotts and the Magical Menagerie. One feeds the mind, the other... well, it feeds my love for anything furry or feathery.”

Alaric grinned. “Ah, a scholar and an animal lover. Dangerous combination.”

“And you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “What’s your go-to spot?”

“Quality Quidditch Supplies,” he admitted with a sheepish shrug. “I spent way too much time there as a teenager, drooling over the latest brooms I couldn’t afford.”

Evangeline chuckled. “Let me guess—Keeper?”

“Chaser, actually,” he corrected, his grin widening. “Though I wasn’t exactly a star player. I was more enthusiastic than skilled.”

“I’m sure you were better than you’re letting on,” she teased. “You strike me as someone who doesn’t do anything halfway.”

His expression softened, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer than she expected. “You’re not wrong,” he said quietly. “But enough about me. What about you? Any hidden talents I should know about?”

“Hidden talents?” she echoed, pretending to think deeply. “Well, I can consume an alarming amount of chocolate frogs in one sitting. Does that count?”

Alaric laughed, shaking his head. “Impressive, but I was hoping for something a little less... confectionary.”

Evangeline smirked. “I’ll have to disappoint you, then. My talents are mostly practical. Spellwork, dueling, surviving impossible situations…”

“And excelling at all of them, no doubt,” he added, his tone light but sincere.

She felt her cheeks warm under his praise and quickly took a sip of her wine to hide her flustered expression. "Well, I'm still alive so I suppose I'm doing alright."

By the time they finished their meal, the warm ambiance of the had café wrapped around them like a cocoon. It felt like a rare sense of peace—a brief reprieve from the chaos of Evangeline's thoughts and the weight of her unanswered questions.

Alaric paid the bill and they stepped outside, the cool November air nipping at her cheeks. She instinctively pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, and Alaric offered her his arm, a gentlemanly gesture that she accepted with a small smile.

As they strolled through the quiet London streets toward the Floo station, Evangeline found herself enjoying the simplicity of the moment. The clatter of her heels against the cobblestones and the faint hum of the city offered a strange yet welcome sense of normalcy. Alaric’s arm was solid and warm beneath her hand, his presence steady and reassuring.

They reached the Floo station, the faint glow of green flames from a nearby hearth casting flickering shadows on their faces. Alaric turned to face her, his dark eyes catching the light in a way that made her heart flutter unexpectedly.

“I had a really great time tonight,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

“So did I,” Evangeline replied, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Thank you for dinner. It was lovely.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and she felt her breath hitch slightly.

Their gazes locked, the moment stretching out between them, and Evangeline felt a flicker of nervous energy in her chest. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to kiss her or if she was relieved when he took a small step back instead.

“Well,” she began, her voice softer than she intended, “I should—”

“Evangeline,” Alaric interrupted gently, his tone hesitant but purposeful. “I know it’s late, and you’ve probably had a long day, but… would you like to come home with me?”

She blinked, caught off guard by his question. The faintest hint of a blush crept up his neck as he quickly added, “No pressure, of course. I just… I suppose I'm just not ready for our night to end."

Evangeline stared at Alaric, her breath catching in her throat as the weight of his words settled between them. A past version of herself—the one who’d waited, hoped, and clung to the idea that her sacrifices for Sebastian might someday matter—would have said no. She’d have forced a polite smile, excused herself, and taken the Floo back to Hogwarts with her heart quietly aching, believing that her patience and devotion might eventually mean something.

But that Evangeline was gone. Or, at least, fading.

Her mind flickered back to that day weeks ago when she’d gone to the Ministry, nerves stretched taut and heart aching with uncertainty. She’d hoped to find Sebastian in the Undercroft when she returned to the castle, hoped to lean into his reassurance, and instead, she’d seen him with her.

The Hufflepuff girl.

Chelsea.

Evangeline had learned her name through whispers in the halls, through murmured conversations she hadn’t meant to overhear. Chelsea, who had seemed so sweet and unassuming at first glance but who now, in Evangeline’s mind, felt like a storm cloud that refused to dissipate. Chelsea, who had been spending more and more nights with Sebastian. Chelsea, who, Evangeline realized, probably didn’t have to fight for Sebastian’s attention. Or his affection.

And Sebastian? He probably hadn’t thought about Evangeline at all. Not when he was with the pretty little Hufflepuff. Not when he was sneaking off with her under the cover of darkness. Certainly not now.

Evangeline felt her chest tighten, a knot of anger and grief she’d been trying so hard to bury threatening to rise to the surface. Why was she still doing this to herself? Why was she still shaping her decisions around someone who would never choose her?

The realization hit her like a wave, sharp and cold. She wasn’t going to be the girl waiting in the wings anymore. If Sebastian didn’t want her, then she wasn’t going to keep living her life as though his opinion was the axis it revolved around. It wasn’t fair to herself, and it wasn’t fair to Alaric, who was standing in front of her now, offering her something real. Something present.

She straightened her shoulders, meeting Alaric’s gaze. His expression was open, sincere, tinged with just enough vulnerability to remind her that this wasn’t some grand gesture or expectation. He was simply asking for more time with her. So she smiled, meeting Alaric's deep gaze.

"Sure," she said, "I'd like that."

Alaric blinked, as though he hadn’t expected her to say yes, but the surprise melted into a smile—warm and inviting, like the man himself. “You’re sure?” he asked, giving her one last chance to change her mind.

Evangeline nodded, “I’m am.”

Without another word, Alaric offered her his arm again, and this time, when she looped hers through his, it felt different. Less hesitant. More certain.

~

The castle was quiet, its usual hum of activity dulled by the late hour. In one of the unused classrooms on the fourth floor, Sebastian sat on the edge of a desk, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his hair tousled from hurried hands. Across the room, Chelsea paced, her expression a mixture of frustration and confusion as she wrapped her arms around herself.

“This isn’t working,” she said finally, her voice breaking the heavy silence.

Sebastian leaned back on his palms, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Chelsea stopped pacing, turning to face him with an incredulous look. “Don’t play dumb, Sebastian. You’ve been distant all night."

Sebastian sighed, raking a hand through his already messy hair. He hadn’t planned for this—hadn’t expected Chelsea to grow attached or start questioning the arrangement they’d so clearly agreed on. She was a nice girl, sure. But she wasn’t…

He cut the thought off before it could form.

“You knew what this was,” he said, his tone careful but firm. “From the beginning, I told you—this isn’t serious. It’s just… fun.”

Chelsea crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “And that's fine, but tonight, you've barely even looked at me. It’s like you weren’t even here.” She took a step closer, her voice softening. “Sebastian, I’m not asking for the world. I just want to know what’s going on with you.”

Sebastian closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. He felt the weight of her gaze on him, but he couldn’t meet it. Couldn’t bear the unspoken question hanging between them. Because the truth—the real truth—was something he couldn’t admit. Not to Chelsea.

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” he said finally, his voice low. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

Chelsea tilted her head, her frustration softening into something more vulnerable. “Is it about her?” she asked quietly.

Sebastian’s eyes snapped to hers, his chest tightening at the mention. “Who?"

“Evangeline,” Chelsea said, her voice steady despite the flicker of hurt in her expression.

Sebastian groaned, running a hand down his face. Of course it was about Evangeline, but for Merlin's sake, it would be nice if Chelsea could stop pressing him about it every damn time they hooked up.

"I've told you a hundred times," Sebastian retorted, "Evie and I are just friends!"

Chelsea flinched at the sharpness in his tone, her lips pressing together in a pout that Sebastian immediately regretted seeing. Her eyes shimmered, not with tears but with the kind of wounded determination that made him want to groan all over again.

“I know what you’ve said,” Chelsea replied, her voice soft, almost meek. “But you don’t act like she’s just a friend, Sebastian. Not with how you talk about her, or how you look at her—”

“Oh, for the love of—” Sebastian pushed off the desk, raking both hands through his hair as he paced the room. “I don’t ‘look’ at her any way, Chelsea. She’s been my best friend since we were fifteen. That’s it. That’s all it is.”

Chelsea trailed after him, her movements timid but insistent. “I don’t think that’s true,” she said, her words gentle but stubborn.

Sebastian spun around, his frustration finally boiling over. “Why do you care so much, huh? What does it matter to you?”

The words came out harsher than he intended, and Chelsea recoiled slightly, but her reaction only stoked his irritation. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t even be asking. She’d known the deal from the start—knew this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, knew that he wasn’t capable of anything more. Not with her. Not with anyone except for Evie.

But Chelsea didn’t retreat. Instead, she stood there, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression a mix of defiance and something painfully vulnerable. “It matters,” she said quietly, “because I like you, Sebastian. I like you more than I should.”

Sebastian froze, his jaw tightening. “Chelsea—”

“And I know you don’t feel the same way,” she continued, cutting him off before he could finish. “You’ve made that perfectly clear. But... can you at least understand why I'd want some reassurance?"

Sebastian let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he processed Chelsea’s words. Her honesty had thrown him off balance, leaving him standing there like a fool, his irritation fading into something softer—something he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

“I get it,” he said finally, his tone quieter, less sharp. He turned to face her fully, his shoulders tense but his expression softening. “I do, Chelsea. I understand why you want to know.”

Chelsea’s arms relaxed slightly, her posture less guarded as she studied him. “Do you?” she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of hope and skepticism.

Sebastian nodded, stepping closer. “I do,” he repeated, his voice steady this time. “And I promise, Evangeline and I have never been anything but friends."

Chelsea’s lips curved into a faint, tentative smile, her gaze flicking back to his face. “Now, was that so hard?” she teased gently, the tension in her voice easing as she took a step closer. Her dark brown eyes softened, darkening slightly as she studied him, the distance between them growing smaller with each heartbeat.

“Chelsea,” he said, his voice low, his hand brushing against hers where it rested on his chest. “Look, I just—”

She leaned up, cutting him off with a soft press of her lips against his. The kiss was gentle at first, careful, almost hesitant, as though waiting for him to pull away. But when he didn’t, Chelsea deepened it, her hand sliding up to rest against the back of his neck.

Sebastian tried to lose himself in it all, letting the physicality anchor him to the present. Chelsea’s hands were warm against his skin, her touch insistent as she pushed closer, but his mind was already slipping away, betraying him at every turn.

Evangeline.

The image of her from earlier that evening flickered behind his closed eyelids—her hair cascading over her shoulders, the faint blush on her cheeks as she adjusted her cloak before stepping into the Floo. She’d looked radiant, her excitement for her date with Alaric unmistakable. The thought had twisted something deep in his chest then, and now it gnawed at him like an old wound reopened.

Chelsea’s hands slid up his chest, her fingers deftly unfastening the remaining buttons of his shirt. She pushed him back until he hit the edge of one of the desks, her lips trailing down his jawline with a soft murmur of his name. His hands moved automatically, gripping her hips, guiding her closer, but the actions were mechanical—empty.

He let out a low hum, trying to drown out the intrusive thoughts, to focus on the warmth of Chelsea’s body pressed against his, the faint scent of her perfume filling the air. But it wasn’t her.

It wasn’t Evangeline.

Chelsea’s hands moved lower, fumbling with the buckle of his belt. Her breath was warm against his neck as she whispered something he didn’t catch, her voice a mix of urgency and affection that only deepened the ache in his chest.

Sebastian’s hands stilled on her waist, his body betraying him as it responded to her touch on autopilot. But his mind refused to follow. All he could see was Evie, her hazel eyes sparkling with an emotion he couldn’t place, couldn’t touch, couldn’t have.

Small hands tugged at his trousers, pulling them lower on Sebastian’s hips as Chelsea’s warm breath ghosted over his skin. He gripped the edge of the desk behind him, his knuckles whitening as he willed his mind blank, to focus on the sensations instead of the storm in his chest. This was what he wanted—or at least, it was what he told himself he needed. A distraction. Something to drown out everything else.

Chelsea’s fingers skimmed along his thighs, her touch light but insistent, and Sebastian closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in the moment. But the harder he tried to shut everything out, the louder his thoughts became, the more vivid the images he didn’t want to see.

Evangeline.

Her name whispered through his mind again like a spell, unbidden and undeniable. He could almost hear the way she said his name—her tone teasing one moment, exasperated the next. And when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t Chelsea he saw. It was Evie, kneeling in front of him, her hands skimming over his skin, her touch setting fire to every nerve in his body. His chest ached with the weight of it, with the cruel sweetness of imagining something he could never have.

Chelsea's tongue swiped over his length, and Sebastian’s breath hitched, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk so tightly he thought the wood might splinter. But it wasn’t her—not really. It wasn’t Chelsea. In his mind, it was Evie, her hazel eyes looking up at him, her lips brushing against his skin, her hands igniting every inch they touched.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, his jaw clenching as if the sheer force of willpower could block out the truth. This was wrong. So wrong. But the moment he tried to pull himself back into reality, the fantasy rushed in to consume him.

He could see her so clearly—Evie’s soft, flushed cheeks, the way her dark hair would fall over her shoulders, the way her lips would part just slightly as she whispered his name. Sebastian. The thought left an ache so deep it threatened to pull him under.

Chelsea’s movements grew more fervent, her hands pressing against his thighs as she worked, but Sebastian wasn’t here anymore. He was lost in a world where Evie wanted him the way he wanted her, where she was the one bringing him to the edge with a devotion he’d only ever dreamed of.

Sebastian’s body reacted instinctively, his breaths coming quicker, shallower. Tension was coiling in his abdomen, release inching closer as the fantasy consumed him entirely. Every touch, every movement—it was Evangeline, her phantom presence filling the gaps, replacing reality with something he could never have. His breaths grew increasingly ragged as every nerve burned with a cruel mix of pleasure and self-loathing.

Sebastian’s chest heaved as the sharp, all-encompassing wave of release surged through him, his head falling back, eyes clenched shut. The vision of Evie lingered like an ache, her imagined touch still ghosting over his skin even as the moment reached its peak. For a fleeting second, he felt weightless, suspended in the fantasy he had conjured so vividly.

And then Chelsea spoke.

“Sebastian,” she murmured, her voice soft, tender, far too real and far too different from Evie's.

The sound shattered the illusion, pulling him back to the present with brutal force. His eyes snapped open, the glow of euphoria fading as quickly as it had come.

The guilt hit him like a tidal wave, crashing over every nerve. Chelsea’s leaned up, brushing her lips over his abdomen with a smile that was too warm, too intimate for what this was supposed to be. She liked him. This meant something to her. And here he was, selfishly letting her give him what he wanted while he thought of someone else.

“Chelsea—” he started, his voice rough and uneven, but she cut him off with a small, almost shy smile.

“How was it?" she asked softly, her hands stilling for a moment as she looked up at him.

Sebastian’s throat tightened. “It was…” He paused, his hands gripping the desk as he struggled for the right words, ones that wouldn’t betray the mess inside him. “It was good, Chelsea. Really.”

Her smile widened, her confidence bolstered by his answer. She leaned up to kiss him again, her lips brushing over his in a way that was tender, affectionate, and far too intimate than he could handle right now.

Sebastian couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep leading her on like this, letting her believe there was something between them when all he could think about was Evie. But how could he tell her that? How could he break this fragile connection they’d built without shattering her completely? Chelsea didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve to wrapped up in him, either—not like this, not when he was using her to fill a void.

“You’re quiet again,” Chelsea murmured against his lips, her fingers brushing over his cheek.

Sebastian forced a smile, his heart sinking as he nodded. "Sorry," he robotically tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "I'm just tired and that... took a lot out of me."

She seemed to accept that, her expression softening as she pressed another kiss to his jaw. “Then maybe we should call it a night,” she said gently, her hand resting over his chest. “We can talk more tomorrow.”

He nodded again, relief and guilt warring within him. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

Chelsea pulled back, her movements unhurried as she adjusted her blouse and smoothed her skirt. She glanced at him one last time, her smile lingering as though she believed this was the start of something, not the end.

But the moment she was out of sight, Sebastian was practically sprinting to the Undercroft. His footsteps echoed through the castle’s quiet halls, the sound sharp and jarring in the oppressive stillness. His chest felt heavy, his breaths shallow, as if the weight of his actions were physically crushing him. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, frustration and disgust twisting in his gut like a vice.

What the hell was that?

He couldn’t escape the memory of Chelsea’s smile, the soft look in her eyes as if this had been something meaningful. Something real. And he’d let her believe it—let her think he cared more than he did. Because the truth was unbearable: he didn’t care. The only thing he’d been thinking about, the only thing that had driven him to let it happen, was Evie.

He cursed under his breath, his pace quickening as if outrunning his thoughts would make a difference. The image of her with Alaric—laughing, smiling, looking at him like he was the center of her world—burned in his mind like a brand. It had been eating away at him all night, the sharp pang of jealousy twisting deeper with every passing second. And instead of dealing with it like a rational person, he’d buried it. Buried it in someone else.

By the time he reached the entrance to the Undercroft, his hands were trembling with the force of his emotions. He pressed his palm against the cold stone wall, the familiar mechanism clicking into place as the hidden door swung open. The cool, dim air of the Undercroft hit him like a wave, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring into the darkness.

He needed to think. To breathe. To figure out how he was going to fix this mess—if that was even possible.

But as he stepped inside, he froze.

Ominis was already there, sitting on one of the old stone benches with his head in his hands. His wand lay discarded beside him, the faint, pale light it usually emitted flickering weakly before fading entirely. He looked... defeated.

Whatever storm Sebastian had been caught in, Ominis clearly had one of his own.

“Ominis?” Sebastian said softly, hesitantly, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

Ominis didn’t move at first, his shoulders tense, his breathing uneven. When he finally lifted his head, his pale eyes—unseeing yet so expressive—turned toward Sebastian, and the weight of whatever he was carrying was written all over his face.

“What is it?” Sebastian asked, stepping closer, his own turmoil momentarily pushed aside. “What happened?”

Ominis let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and sharp. "The usual."

Sebastian frowned, his chest tightening at the sheer exhaustion in his friend’s voice. He sat down beside him, leaving enough space for Ominis to feel comfortable but close enough to show he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Your father?

Ominis nodded, his jaw tight.

Sebastian’s stomach dropped. “What did he do this time?"

Ominis exhaled sharply, as though trying to steady himself. “I told Anne how I felt a few weeks ago,” he began, his tone quiet, measured. “I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. And she... she said she felt the same.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows lifted, and for a brief moment, a flicker of something warm pierced through the tension. “She did?”

Ominis nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She did,” he echoed. “We decided to court. Secretly, of course—at least for a while. We needed time to... figure things out and it was... wonderful, Sebastian. It is wonderful. Merlin, she's everything to me."

Sebastian smiled faintly, a hint of pride swelling in his chest for his friend. Ominis deserved that happiness. Anne deserved it too. But the smile faded as Ominis’s expression darkened again.

“But then,” Ominis continued, his voice growing heavier, “I knew I had to tell my family. It was only a matter of time before they found out on their own, and I didn’t want Anne dragged into their schemes without warning. So, I told them.”

Sebastian leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “And how did that go?”

Ominis let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “As you might expect. My father was furious. He called her every name under the sun— ‘a taint on the Gaunt legacy,’ ‘an embarrassment.’” His voice wavered, and he swallowed hard, his hands tightening into fists again. “He told me if I didn’t end things with her immediately, he'd disown me and.... and he’d make sure she never got the care she needs.”

Sebastian’s blood ran cold. “What?”

“He’s already threatened to contact St. Mungo’s,” Ominis said, his voice hollow. “Threatened to pull strings, to make life as difficult as possible for her. He has the means, Sebastian. And the connections.”

Sebastian’s fists clenched at his sides, anger surging through him like a fire. “That bastard,” he growled. “How can he do this? How can he—”

“Because he's a Gaunt,” Ominis interrupted sharply, his voice bitter and tired. “And because he doesn’t care about anything but preserving the family’s twisted ideals. Anne is nothing to him but an inconvenience. And I’m—” He stopped, his voice catching in his throat. “I’m just a pawn. A tool to uphold the Gaunt name.”

Sebastian’s chest ached. He leaned forward, gripping Ominis’s shoulder tightly. “You’re not a pawn,” he said firmly. “We’ll figure it out, Ominis. We’ll protect you. And Anne.”

Ominis turned his head slightly, his pale, unseeing eyes narrowing as though searching for something in Sebastian’s face. “How?” he asked quietly, his voice laced with doubt.

“I don’t know yet,” Sebastian admitted, his voice edged with frustration. “But I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out. There’s no way I’m letting that vile excuse for a man destroy what you and Anne have.”

Ominis let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound simple. Like we’re not up against someone who has the entire magical aristocracy in his pocket. My father doesn’t lose, Sebastian. He doesn’t bend.”

“Then we make him break,” Sebastian said fiercely, his jaw tightening. He stopped pacing, his dark eyes burning with determination. “We’ve faced worse.”

“This isn’t like fighting poachers in the Forbidden Forest,” Ominis said, his voice sharp but cracking under the weight of his emotions. “This isn’t about spells or duels. It’s about power. Politics. He’ll ruin Anne, Sebastian. And he’ll ruin me, if I don't do what he asks.”

Sebastian crossed his arms, his expression darkening. “He’s not going to ruin anyone. Anne’s been through enough. So have you. I’ll go to St. Mungo’s myself if I have to, make sure they don’t listen to him. There has to be someone there who—”

Ominis cut him off with a weary sigh, rubbing his temples as if the weight of the conversation was too much to bear. “Do you even hear yourself? Charging into St. Mungo’s, trying to outmaneuver my father? He’s been playing this game longer than we’ve been alive.”

Sebastian’s frustration flared, heat rising to his face as his fists clenched at his sides. The urge to shout, to rail against the injustice of it all, burned in his chest, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. He couldn’t lose his temper—not now. Not when Ominis was already teetering on the edge, his usual calm and collected demeanor replaced by a fragile shell barely holding together.

He needed to ground himself, to focus. This wasn’t about his anger or his helplessness. This was about Ominis, his oldest friend, the person who had stood by him through the worst of his decisions, and Anne, his sister, the only family he had left in the world. Two of the most important people in his universe had finally found something good—something pure—and he wasn’t about to let anyone, not even the monstrous figure that was Noctivus Gaunt, snatch that away from them.

“Listen to me,” Sebastian said firmly, stepping closer. He placed a steadying hand on Ominis’s shoulder, the gesture grounding both of them. "We will find a way. We will. Your father wants you to feel like you don’t have a choice, like every path leads back to him. But you do have a choice, Ominis. You and Anne—you deserve this. You deserve each other."

Ominis let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “Deserving it doesn’t make it possible, Sebastian. My father... he’s not just a man. He’s an institution. He has connections, power—enough to make life unbearable for Anne if I don’t do as he says.”

Sebastian’s hand tightened on Ominis’s shoulder, his jaw clenching. “Then we’ll find a way to make sure he doesn’t get the chance. You’re not alone in this, Ominis."

Sebastian stepped back, his mind racing as determination took over. His gaze landed on the old wooden table in the center of the Undercroft, and without hesitation, he strode toward it. Pulling out his wand, he summoned a piece of parchment and a quill from the nearby shelves.

“What are you doing?” Ominis asked, his voice laced with exhaustion and skepticism.

“Writing to Evie,” Sebastian said firmly, dipping the quill into the inkpot with sharp, purposeful movements. “If anyone can come up with a plan, it’s her. She knows how to think outside the box. She’s dealt with impossible odds before. We need her.”

Ominis’s expression hardened, and he let out a frustrated sigh. “Sebastian, she’s on a date. With Alaric. You know that.”

Sebastian froze for half a second, his grip tightening on the quill as the words hit him. But he shook his head, brushing aside the flicker of discomfort that rose in his chest. “So what?” he retorted, his tone edged with impatience. “This is bigger than her date. She’d drop anything to help you, Ominis. To help Anne.”

“That doesn’t mean we should drag her into this right now,” Ominis countered, his voice firmer now. “She’s already dealing with enough—her nightmares, her questions about the Ministry, her future. Do you really want to add this to her plate?”

Sebastian turned to face Ominis, his eyes blazing. “She loves you, Ominis. And she loves Anne. She’d hate it if we kept this from her. Do you really think she’d want us sitting here doing nothing while your father threatens you?”

Ominis pressed his lips into a thin line, clearly torn. He ran a hand through his hair, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “Sebastian,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and pleading, “I don’t want to involve her unless we absolutely have to. If there’s another way—”

“There’s no time for ‘another way,’” Sebastian interrupted, slamming the quill down onto the table. “Your father isn’t going to wait for us to figure this out. Every second we waste is a second he could use to ruin everything. And if you lose Anne because we were too stubborn to ask for help, can you live with that?”

Ominis flinched, his face tightening as the words sank in. He didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes.

Sebastian turned back to the table, his hand hovering over the parchment as he tried to steady his breathing. “Evie’d want to know,” he said more softly this time, his voice steady but less harsh. “She’d want to help. You know she would.”

Ominis let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of Sebastian’s argument had finally crushed his resistance. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “But don’t make it sound like the world is ending. She’ll panic.”

Sebastian nodded, his jaw tightening with resolve. “I’ll keep it simple.”

With that, he began to write, the quill scratching across the parchment in swift, precise strokes:

Evie, I know you’re busy, but this can’t wait. It’s about Ominis—and Anne. There’s something you need to know. Please come to the Undercroft as soon as you can. —S

He sealed the letter quickly, attaching it to a small, charmed bird he conjured with a flick of his wand. The shimmering, silvery-blue construct took flight immediately, phasing through the stone wall as it sought its recipient.

Sebastian turned back to Ominis, his expression grim but resolute. “She’ll come,” he said simply.

Ominis didn’t respond, but the faintest flicker of gratitude passed across his face as he leaned back against the stone bench, his head tilted upward as though searching for strength in the shadows of the ceiling.

~

Evangeline lay sprawled across the plush, rumpled sheets of Alaric’s bed, her body still tingling from the intensity of their shared moment. A lazy smile curved her lips as she stretched, letting the soft warmth of the room cocoon her. Her clothes were scattered haphazardly across the bedroom—her dress draped over a chair, her coat tossed near the foot of the bed, and her socks in two entirely different corners of the room. The thought made her chuckle softly, a flush creeping over her cheeks.

She could hear the faint hum of the shower running from the bathroom, the sound of water cascading against tiles punctuated by Alaric’s low, tuneless humming. She bit her lip, feeling a thrill of giddy disbelief wash over her.

She’d done it. She’d taken a chance, let herself be vulnerable, and... it had been incredible. Alaric had been patient, attentive, and kind—everything she hadn’t known she needed. Her mind wandered back to the way he’d touched her, the way he’d murmured her name like a prayer, and her stomach flipped with a mix of delight and shy embarrassment.

Evangeline sighed contentedly, rolling onto her side and tucking her hands beneath her cheek as she stared at the small, tastefully decorated room. It was unpretentious and charming, much like Alaric himself—neatly stacked books on the bedside table, a few framed photos on the dresser, and a faint, woody scent lingering in the air that she now associated with him.

But her reverie was interrupted by a faint tapping at the window.

She frowned, sitting up slightly and clutching the sheet to her chest as she glanced toward the sound. There, just outside the window, was a shimmering, enchanted bird, its silvery-blue form faintly glowing against the dark backdrop of the London skyline. Her heart skipped a beat.

“What in the—” she slid out of bed and approached the window. She opened it cautiously, the chill November air brushing against her skin as the bird fluttered inside and landed gracefully on the nightstand.

The moment it touched the surface, it dissolved into a swirl of glittering light, leaving behind a folded piece of parchment sealed with a familiar flourish. Her stomach tightened.

Sebastian.

Evangeline’s fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the letter, the weight of it suddenly feeling heavier than it should. She unfolded it quickly, her eyes scanning the hastily scrawled words, her heart dropping in her chest.

The contentment she’d been basking in shattering like glass. Ominis and Anne. Something was wrong—seriously wrong.

She read the letter again, as if hoping she’d misinterpreted it, but the urgency in Sebastian’s handwriting was unmistakable.

Evangeline swallowed hard, her mind racing. She glanced toward the bathroom, where the sound of the shower still hummed softly. Alaric. How was she supposed to explain this to him?

Her fingers tightened around the letter as guilt and anxiety warred within her. But there was no choice, not really. Ominis and Anne came first. They always would.

She quickly pulled on her discarded clothes, her movements hurried and clumsy as she tried to untangle her coat from the chair. By the time Alaric emerged from the washroom, towel wrapped around his waist and steam curling around him, she was nearly dressed, her back to him as she laced up her boots.

“Evie?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion. “What’s going on?”

She turned to face him, clutching the letter against her chest. “I—I have to go,” she said quickly, her voice faltering under the weight of his gaze. “It’s... something came up. Something important.”

Alaric frowned, his dark brows knitting together as he stepped closer. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, though her tone was anything but convincing. “It’s just—Ominis. There's something urgent happening, I— I need to check on him."

His frown deepened, and he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Her heart clenched at the offer, the genuine concern in his eyes almost making her want to say yes. But this wasn’t his fight. It wasn’t his burden to bear. And knowing Ominis, whatever the issue was, it should be kept secret.

“No,” she said softly, shaking her head. “I appreciate it, but... I need to handle this myself."

Alaric’s gaze lingered on her, his worry evident in the tight line of his mouth and the furrow of his brow. Evangeline hated leaving like this, especially after the time they’d just shared, but the urgency in Sebastian’s letter loomed over her like a storm cloud, pushing her forward.

She stepped closer to Alaric, her boots clicking softly against the hardwood floor. His dark eyes searched hers, as though trying to decipher the storm of emotions swirling behind them. She reached up, her fingers brushing against his jawline as she tugged him down toward her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice soft but filled with conviction

Before he could respond, she closed the gap between them, pressing her lips to his in a kiss. Her hands slid up to the nape of his neck, her fingers tangling briefly in the damp strands of his hair and he responded in kind, his hands resting on her waist, grounding her even as her mind raced ahead to what awaited her.

When she pulled back, her lips tingling and her heart aching with the weight of the goodbye, she offered him a small, bittersweet smile. “Thank you,” she said softly, “For understanding.”

Alaric’s hands lingered on her waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of her blouse. “Of course,” he said, his voice steady despite the flicker of unease in his eyes. “Just... be careful, Evie.”

She nodded, stepping back reluctantly. Her fingers tightened around Sebastian’s letter as she turned toward the door, her mind already shifting to the quickest route back to the castle. She couldn’t afford to waste another second.

With a sharp inhale, she closed her eyes and focused, the sensation of Apparition washing over her like a rush of icy water. The world twisted and pulled, and in the next instant, she was standing just outside the edge of the Hogwarts grounds, the towering silhouette of the castle rising against the night sky.

The cold November air bit at her skin, and she clutched her coat tighter around herself, her breaths visible in the crisp air. She began the brisk walk toward the castle, her thoughts racing with every step. Whatever this was about, it couldn’t wait—not if Sebastian had reached out to her like this.

~

The Undercroft was quiet and tense, the air thick worry. Ominis and Sebastian were seated on the low stone benches, their voices barely above whispers as they went back and forth, trying to piece together a plan amidst the impossible circumstances.

Sebastian leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his jaw clenched tight as he stared at the floor. “We can’t just wait for him to make his move, Ominis. If we don’t act first—”

“Act first, and do what, exactly?” Ominis interrupted, his voice sharp despite the exhaustion behind it. “He’ll see us coming before we’ve even had the chance to draw wands.”

Sebastian’s retort was cut short by the sound of the secret door shifting open. Both boys turned toward the entrance, their expressions shifting from frustration to surprise as Evangeline stepped inside. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, a soft pink tinting her pale skin. Her dark hair was slightly tousled, hinting at her hurried movements—or something else entirely.

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on her a moment too long, his sharp eyes catching every detail. The faint creases in her dress, the way her hair was mussed, the flush in her cheeks that didn’t seem entirely from the brisk November air. His stomach twisted, jealousy and guilt battling for dominance, but he pushed it aside. She was here. That was what mattered.

“Evie,” he said, standing quickly and stepping toward her. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” she replied, her voice slightly breathless as she shrugged off her coat. Her hazel eyes darted between him and Ominis, taking in their tense postures and the palpable unease that filled the room. “What’s going on?"

Ominis stood as well, his pale eyes narrowing as he focused in her direction. “You didn’t have to come tonight, Evie. You had plans.”

She waved a hand dismissively, stepping further into the room. “Plans can wait. You can’t.” Her tone left no room for argument, and Ominis’s lips pressed into a thin line, though he didn’t push back.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened as he watched her, the resolve in her eyes, the way she carried herself despite whatever she’d been pulled away from. She always showed up for them—for him, for Ominis, for Anne. And yet, all he could think about was how she’d been with Alaric, how she’d probably kissed him goodbye before rushing to the Undercroft.

Evangeline turned to Ominis, her expression softening slightly as she placed a hand on his arm. “Are you alright?”

Ominis hesitated, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “No,” he admitted quietly. “But I will be. I just... I need your help. Anne needs your help.”

Her brows furrowed in concern, and she moved closer to him. “Of course. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

Ominis’s lips parted, but for a moment, no words came out. He seemed to be grappling with how to phrase what had clearly shaken him so deeply. Finally, he exhaled, his voice uneven.

“It’s my father,” Ominis began, his pale eyes tilting downward as though the weight of the confession was too heavy to bear. “He knows about Anne and me.”

Evangeline stilled, her hazel eyes widening slightly. “You told him?”

“I had to,” Ominis replied, his voice thick with frustration. “I thought... I thought he might at least try to respect my decision if I was honest. If I presented it as something that was already settled.” His laugh was hollow, bitter. “I should’ve known better.”

“What did he say?” she asked softly, her tone careful but laced with dread.

Ominis pressed his lips into a tight line, his fists clenching at his sides. “He called her unworthy, a disgrace. He said she would taint the Gaunt name.”

Evangeline’s jaw tightened, anger sparking behind her eyes. “That bastard.”

Sebastian couldn’t help the faint smirk that tugged at his lips despite the situation. It was so distinctly Evie to immediately side with them without hesitation, her loyalty unwavering. But the moment of levity was short-lived as Ominis continued.

“He threatened her care,” Ominis said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He said if I didn’t end things with her, he’d make sure she didn’t receive the treatment she needs at St. Mungo’s.”

Evangeline gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “He wouldn’t—”

“He would,” Ominis interrupted, his voice low and sharp. "He doesn’t make empty threats.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she lowered them, the full weight of Ominis’s predicament settling over her. “That’s despicable,” she said, her voice shaking with barely contained anger. “We can’t let him do this.”

Sebastian stepped forward, his expression hard. “That’s why we need your help. If anyone can figure out a way to outmaneuver him, it’s you.”

Evangeline blinked, her gaze flicking between the two boys. She looked overwhelmed for a brief moment, but then her resolve snapped into place, her shoulders squaring as she stood taller. “Alright,” she said as she paced the room. "What ideas have you two already eliminated?"

Sebastian and Ominis exchanged a quick glance, the tension thick between them. Ominis exhaled slowly, leaning back against the stone wall. “All of them,” he muttered bitterly.

“We’ve considered talking to St. Mungo’s directly,” Sebastian offered, though his tone was tinged with frustration. “But Ominis’s father has connections there. It wouldn’t take much for him to interfere with Anne’s treatment.”

Evangeline frowned, pacing in a tight line across the room. “What about the Ministry? Surely there’s some kind of oversight, a way to keep him from meddling—”

Ominis shook his head, cutting her off. “The Gaunts are too entrenched in Ministry politics. My father’s name carries weight, and he knows how to pull strings without leaving a trace.”

Evangeline bit her lip, her brow furrowed in concentration. “What about going public? If we expose his threats—”

“And drag Anne’s personal life into the spotlight?” Ominis asked, his voice tight. “Do you think she’d want that? And besides, my father would control the entire narrative in the press anyway."

Evangeline stilled, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “You're right,” she admitted softly, her gaze dropping for a moment before snapping back to meet his. “But there has to be something we can do. We’re not going to sit here and let him ruin her life—or yours.”

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on her, the intensity in her eyes stirring something deep within him. She had always been like this—fierce, unwavering, ready to fight for the people she loved. He envied that strength, even as he relied on it.

Evangeline’s lips pressed into a thin line as an idea began to form. “Ominis, how much does your father know about you and Anne? Does he think this is just... infatuation?”

Ominis’s pale eyes narrowed, his head tilting slightly. “Most likely,” he admitted. “He underestimates me. He always has.”

“Good,” Evangeline said sharply, her voice laced with resolve. “Then we use that. Let him think you’re wavering, that you’re starting to doubt your relationship with Anne. It’ll buy us time."

Sebastian arched an eyebrow, "Buy us time for what, exactly?"

Evangeline stilled mid-pace, turning to face him with a resolute glint in her hazel eyes. “The Gaunts are powerful because of their status in the Sacred Twenty-Four. But what if we could make them feel powerless? What if we used their own games against them?”

Ominis frowned, his pale eyes narrowing as he processed her words. “You’re talking about playing politics against my father? Evangeline, that’s suicide.”

“Exactly,” Sebastian added, his tone dripping with doubt. “And how do you propose we even do that? We’re not exactly swimming in leverage or allies.”

Evangeline’s lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers curling at her sides as she took a steadying breath. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, her voice calm but firm. "...I'm a Muldoon, remember?"

Her words hung in the air like a spark waiting to ignite, the weight of them pressing down on the tension-filled Undercroft.

Ominis and Sebastian froze, their gazes snapping to her with equal measures of disbelief and confusion.

“Come again?” Sebastian asked, his voice sharp and incredulous.

Evangeline squared her shoulders, her hazel eyes locking onto his. “I said, I’m a Muldoon,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “Or at least, the Ministry thinks I am. And it might just be the leverage we need.”

Ominis tilted his head, his pale eyes narrowing as he processed her words. “You’re suggesting that you use your connection to one of the most reclusive, feared wizarding families in history... to intimidate my father?”

"...yes."

The silence that followed her admission was deafening, broken only by the faint rustling of Ominis’s robes as he shifted uncomfortably.

Sebastian was the first to react, letting out a short, humorless laugh. “Are you serious, Evie?” he asked, his voice low and laced with disbelief. “You want to bluff your way into a political power play with one of the most dangerous men in the wizarding world?”

Evangeline’s expression didn’t waver. “It’s not a bluff if it’s true,” she replied, her tone even but resolute.

Sebastian threw up his hands, pacing the length of the room as if trying to physically shake off the weight of her words. “We don’t even have proof,” he snapped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “The Ministry has been dragging their feet for weeks! And you said it yourself that you're terrified to even be their blood!"

"Then what do you suggest?" Evangeline snapped, eyes narrowing, "We sit here and wring our hands hoping Noctivus feels merciful?" She laughed humorlessly, "I'll be damned if I let that man destroy what Ominis and Anne have. If my connection to the Muldoons can make him think twice, then we use it.”

Sebastian turned to her, his jaw tight, his dark eyes burning with a mix of frustration and fear. “Do you even hear yourself?” he demanded. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that we get our hands on some evidence that you belong to the Muldoon family. You don’t even know them. We don’t know how they��d react to someone like you suddenly claiming their name! For all we know, they’d see you as a threat and come after you instead.”

Evangeline scowled, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "I don't think I'm the one claiming them. I think they're the ones claiming me." She glanced between Sebastian and Ominis, "You two said it yourselves. They're reclusive, and their records wouldn't just come up for no reason. The Ministry would only give me the name if they were certain, so what if the Muldoons helped the Ministry connect the dots?"

Ominis’s breath hitched, his pale eyes narrowing further as he mulled over her words. "You mean... the Ministry found their connection to you because the Muldoons wanted them find it.”

Sebastian scoffed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Or,” he countered, his voice biting, “it’s because the Ministry stumbled into something they weren’t supposed to find, and now the Muldoons are watching Evie from the shadows, trying to decide if she's a threat.”

Evangeline’s jaw tightened, her eyes flicking to Sebastian, sharp and unyielding. “And what if they are? Does that mean I’m supposed to sit back and do nothing? Let Noctivus ruin everything while I hide? I won’t do it.”

Sebastian stopped pacing, turning to face her fully. His dark eyes burned with frustration, but beneath it, there was fear. Fear for her, for her life.

“This isn’t like fighting goblins or poachers, Evie,” he said, his voice low but forceful. “This is political warfare. If the Muldoons see you as a pawn, they’ll use you. If they see you as a threat, they’ll destroy you. Either way, you lose.”

Evangeline’s chin lifted, defiance sparking in her gaze. “Sebastian, what’s the alternative? Let Ominis’s father manipulate Anne’s care? Watch as he twists the knife further into Ominis’s life? I won’t stand by and let that happen. If I have to gamble with my own life to protect them, then so be it.”

Sebastian’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “How can you think it's okay to be risking yourself like this? Merlin, Evie, you’re not—”

“I’m not what?” she cut in, her voice rising.

“You’re not invincible!” Sebastian snapped, his voice cracking with the force of his emotions. “You think you can take on everyone and everything, but one day, it’s going to be too much. And I—” He stopped himself, the words hanging unspoken between them.

Evangeline stared at him, her chest heaving with the weight of her emotions. “I know I’m not invincible,” she said quietly, her voice steadying. “But if this is the only shot we have, then I'm going to take it, even if that means putting myself in danger, because right now, they're in danger."

The tension in the Undercroft was thick enough to cut with a knife. Sebastian stared at Evangeline, his jaw tightening as her words sunk in.

Ominis, who had been listening in pained silence, finally spoke, his voice low and measured. “...She’s right, Sebastian. If we don’t find a way to stand up to him, he’ll ruin Anne.” he said, his pale eyes fixed on some distant point. “And me. And he’ll do it without a second thought."

Sebastian stopped pacing, his back still to them as he stared at the wall, his breathing uneven. He hated this. Hated the way they were being forced into a corner, the way Evangeline was being forced to risk everything, hated that she had to use the heritage she didn't even want as a weapon, hated the way Ominis was so resigned to his father’s cruelty. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

But he couldn’t think of another way.

Sebastian let out a shaky breath, his hands rubbing over his face as if trying to wipe away the frustration and fear clawing at him. When he finally spoke, his voice was uneven, a weak attempt at levity. “You know,” he said, his words breaking the tense silence, “it’s a really bad sign when I’m the one being reasonable here.”

Ominis turned his head slightly, the faintest hint of a dry smile ghosting over his lips. “A terrifying prospect, really,” he murmured, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Evangeline looked between them, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in reluctant acknowledgment. But the weight of the situation lingered, pressing down on all of them, refusing to let them breathe.

Sebastian’s attempt at humor crumbled as quickly as it had surfaced. His chest ached, a dull, relentless pressure that only grew sharper when his gaze fell on Evie again. She was standing there with her arms crossed, her chin raised in defiance, her hazel eyes burning with that familiar determination that had always drawn him to her. But now, it terrified him.

“Evie,” he said softly, his voice cracking despite his best efforts to steady it.

Without thinking, Sebastian closed the remaining distance between them, his hands gripping her shoulders before sliding down to her arms. His touch was firm but trembling, as though he were trying to anchor himself—or perhaps her. The faint scent of Alaric’s cologne hit him then, sharp, woody, and foreign, and it made his stomach twist. It was a cruel reminder that she wasn’t his, not really. But none of that mattered right now. Not when she was standing here, ready to risk everything for the people they both loved.

“You can’t—don’t do anything reckless,” he murmured against her hair, his voice muffled but desperate. “Not for Ominis, not for Anne, not for me. Promise me you’ll be smart about this”

Evangeline’s arms hesitated before wrapping around him, her grip firm but gentle. “I'll be careful,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the faint tremor in it. “But you know I’m not going to back down.”

Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as he clung to her like a lifeline. “I know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what scares me.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and raw, and for a moment, the world outside the Undercroft seemed to fade away. There was no Noctivus, no Muldoons, no Alaric, not even Ominis—just the two of them, standing together in the quiet.

When Sebastian finally pulled back, his hands lingered on her arms, his dark eyes searching hers with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. “I mean it, Evangeline,” he said again, his voice firmer this time. “When you confront him... you come back. No matter what. You come back.”

Evangeline nodded, “I will,” she promised, her voice steady as she wrapped her pinky finger around his. “I always do.”

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline Read on AO3

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[thisonegirl]

His Last Dream

pairing : nanami kento x reader (nanami centered) rating : sfw warnings : mentions of death ; mentions of sex wc : 600+ (edited)

The cool breeze carried the scent of the sea with it as it blew across his face. He inhaled deeply the air letting it fill his lungs and exhaled, with it expelling the tension from within.

Nanami couldn’t remember the last time he had felt ease such as this, that is, if he ever even had. It was all he had dreamed about, every single thing. Perfection as he had envisioned it. No corporate bullshit to stress him out nor curses to fight against. Just the sun, the sea and his Y/N, his peace.

He laid on the sand of the empty beach, enjoying the heat from the rays above and listening to the sound of the waves coming and going. His hand in hers as she did the same.

He wished he could stay there forever, forsaking the responsibilities and duties given to him. Living in utter bliss until his end, and even then, to have the opportunity, privilege even, to go in peace at an old age.

He knew it saddened Y/N that there was a possibility that he’d go before her, before his time. That they wouldn’t be able to live out their lives in old age. He knew she wanted children and grandchildren, and for him to meet them all and watch them grow. It hurt him that he couldn’t give that to her, not with the life he lived. He couldn’t in good conscience bring a child into his world.

Nanami often wondered why she stayed with him. Why subject herself to the risk of such heartache. It was a question that plagued him in the rare moments of quietness when he watched you sleep peacefully after a round or three of passionate sex. He wondered why he was worth it in your eyes but he knew better than to ask.

“Nanami,” Y/N whispered, her voice sweet and mellow. He felt her rest her chin against his chin, he opened his eyes to be met with a view like no other, her smile.

She leaned into him, closing the distance between their lips, locking them in a sweet kiss.

“Y/N…” he croaked.

At that moment, he felt you evaporate into the air. The sound of trees blowing in the air and waves flowing in the sea disappeared with you. All that was left was aching all over his body. The pain was so bad it felt numb. 

He figured it was too good to be true. Peace like that could only truly come in a dream, and dreams, as much as we’d like it to be otherwise, don't last forever. Maybe that dream would’ve come true had he listened to Y/N’s concerns from earlier and stayed home but no, he couldn’t. Not when his help was needed in such a dire time.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, hoping to ease her worries. The first promise to her that he’d ever broken. He hoped she’d forgive him. She will, her heart is the kindest he’d ever known and the most forgiving,

His vision had cleared and before him he saw Haibara, his old and dear friend there ready to take him along. I missed you. I wished you could’ve met her. I told her all about you and I’ll be sure to tell you all about her now.

Turning his head, he looked towards Itadori, the boy had seen too much for his young age. The cheerfulness had drained from his face, something Nanami hoped would never happen, but he knew the boy had a strong heart so it would all be back.

“Itadori… you take it from here… and make sure to tell Y/N I love her.”

——————————

masterlist

[blue--ingenue]

"Evasive Maneuvers" - Part 5

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Summary: You've been in love with Sebastian since the moment you knocked him on his arse on your first day. Entering your sixth year, you finally begin working up the courage to confess your feelings when he suddenly becomes the best Beater Hogwarts has seen in decades - and subsequently becomes the school's most eligible bachelor.

Author's Notes: i apologize for the long wait, but this is also the longest chapter yet, so i hope that makes up for it :) oh, boy. seb is Messy and smitten and definitely isn't picking up on Ominis' sarcasm. this fic would be so much shorter if our boy knew how to talk about his feelings, but fortunately unfortunatly this is not the case, so here we are. anyway, eat up, and let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

She couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment Sebastian had become distant. One day he was walking her to her dormitory after dinner, like he always insisted upon doing, and the next morning he was avoiding her like the plague. His absence was so complete that she couldn’t even approach him to ask what was bothering him. He would slip through the door the second each of their shared classes was over and she’d be lucky just to catch a glimpse of him in the halls, if at all. After three days of frustratingly trying to track him down, she resorted to sending him an owl. She felt absolutely ridiculous as she scrawled a hasty ‘Meet me in the Undercroft after dinner. I need to know that you aren’t truly avoiding me.’

They had been practically inseparable for the past few years, and now here she was, sending him post as though they didn’t live beneath the same roof. She held her quill just above the scrap of parchment before adding ‘Please.’ There. He’d never denied her anything before, but she wasn’t about to take her chances. Not when she missed him so. The subtle begging tone in her message was the last weapon she had left in her arsenal. After impatiently blowing on the drying ink, she folded the note and held it out for Astra to clutch. As her owl flew off with the desperate message she silently hoped today would be the last day she endured his absence.

-

Wind snapped the tails of Sebastian’s robe as he pushed his broom to fly faster. He’d pushed his goggles to the top of his head to keep his curls from blocking his vision, which meant that every gust of air sent his eyes watering over and over again. He didn’t care. The sting was a welcome sensation that kept him grounded as torrents of confounding emotions roiled through his mind. Ever since his earth-shattering revelation in Potions, Sebastian had steered clear of her. He was hanging onto a ledge, torn between telling her and swallowing down his affections lest she see him as nothing more than a friend. He could feel the gravity of the former option dragging at his resolve, but the fear of rejection was a far more vicious motivator to keep hanging on. 

He curled his fist tighter around his bat, leather gloves creaking under the strain. This was the last bit of practice he’d get before the anticipated Slytherin vs. Gryffindor match this afternoon and he didn’t intend to squander it. The two bludgers he’d charmed to fly about and aim at him were circling just beneath. He pulled his arm in and back, preparing to deflect as the wind whistled and parted around the first bludger shooting toward him. He waited until it was just barely within arms’ reach - and felt a satisfying crack as his bat made contact. He had half a mind to fling every bludger right into Weasley’s stupid charming face. He knew he harbored feelings for his Gryffindor. Nobody looks at mere friends the way he had gazed at her in Potions. He would know. 

And the way she had frantically ripped his cloak from his body? He knew she had only done it to spare the rest of him from getting burned, but that didn’t stop Sebastian’s jealous mind from twisting the image into an entirely different possibility. Every night since The Incident his dreams had been plagued by thoughts of her ripping into the rest of Weasley’s clothes. Not in the Potions classroom, but somewhere far more intimate. Flashes of him kissing her senseless, of her gasping Weasley’s name, taunted nearly every waking moment. It was torture of the highest degree. Between the terror of losing her, the fledgling hope of letting himself love her, and every anguishing emotion in-between, Sebastian was an utter wreck.

It was like someone had struck him senseless and set him in the center of the Forbidden Forest telling him to find his way out without a wand. And so rather than choose a direction, he chose to stay right where he was. Avoiding the problem also, unfortunately, meant avoiding her. The logical, and by far the most terrifying, course of action would be to just tell her. Maybe she could let him down easy, and after a few weeks of awkwardness things could go back to the way they were before he - what? Before he bared his heart to her? Confessed that he’s loved her the entire time but he was too much of a bloody coward to say anything? No chance. Sebastian Sallow was known for many things, but not one of them was taking the easiest way out. He pulled off his goggles and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Despite the ache in both arms he felt more than prepared for the afternoon. He shifted his weight forward, angling the broom into an easy descent and hovering an inch above the ground. 

“Sallow!” a voice called to him from the entrance to the pitch. Imelda was waving him over, broom in hand and fully dressed in her captain’s uniform. Behind her the rest of the team were filing onto the pitch, setting their brooms down and stretching in the grass. He willed his broom forward and closed the distance between them in a single fluid motion. 

“I admire your dedication, but you should’ve been saving your strength for the match,” she chided him. He pulled his quidditch gloves from his hands as he dismounted and the broom fell the last few inches onto the grass with a soft thump.

“I was just about to head in for breakfast,” he explains. She cocks a brow at him, which is typically the sign that he’s missing something crucial.

“Sallow, it’s just past lunch. The match starts in less than an hour.”

What? That couldn’t be right. He thrust his hand into his pocket to check his watch and - Shit. He’d left it in the changing rooms. Imelda rolled her eyes without malice and pulled out two paper-wrapped packages. The smell of roast beef had him accepting both packages without thinking.

“Lucky for you, someone was keeping tabs on whether you’d eaten or not,” she scoffs as he unwraps the sandwich.

“Thanks, Imelda,” he says, truly meaning it, as he takes a greedy bite out of the roast beef sandwich. It’s his favorite, with a generous slather of mustard holding the thick-cut beef between slices of tomato, lettuce, and still-warm bread.

He scarfs down the first bite, intending to ask how she knew what his go-to meal was when she says, “I’m merely the messenger. She’s been looking for you all day. And with how tense things seem between the two of you, I figure you know exactly who I’m talking about.”

He freezes mid-chew and gulps the rest of the mouthful down. His stomach turns as his hunger dissipates and guilt settles in its place. Imelda clocks his change in demeanor and holds up a hand, silencing him before he can speak. 

“Whatever the two of you have going on, it has to wait until after the match. I can’t afford to have you distracted today. Can I count on you?” 

He pushes an affirmative around the lump forming in his throat and she relaxes, satisfied with his answer. As her form retreats toward the changing tents he rewraps the sandwich and carefully unwraps the second package. A vanilla scone sits nestled in the wax paper. The icing and butter slathered across the top have barely melted, which meant she must’ve waited until the house elves apparated a fresh batch just to grab him one. He shuts his eyes and groans. 

“I’m such an ass,” he tells the heavens.

“Indeed. Though I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to reach that conclusion,” a posh voice admonishes from behind him. He turns to face Ominis, the scone still clutched in his hand. The familiar red light pulses from the tip of his wand and he frowns.

“I’m guessing from the scent of vanilla that Imelda has passed on our mutual friend’s peace offering. Though from what I’ve heard, she isn’t the one who should be extending an olive branch,” he continues.

“I swear I meant to talk to her this morning. I just lost track of time,” he explains. Ominis sighs, a recurring sound that’s beginning to grate on Sebastian’s nerves despite the fact that he deserves every one of them. Ominis is her second-favorite Slytherin (after Sebastian, of course), and he finds it odd that they didn’t arrive at the stadium together. 

“Hold on, she is coming today, isn’t she?” he asks. Surely his recent antics weren’t enough to drive her away from the match? Ominis cocks a brow before confirming.

“She is. She told me that ‘nothing could keep her from cheering on her favorite beater’. Apparently she’s been making her own jersey to wear to the match with his last name on the back and everything.”

His whole body tenses and suddenly he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. Someone has lit a match in his chest, and every heartbeat spreads the thick, choking envy through every inch of him until it’s all he can think about. So he hadn’t imagined their affections yesterday. The gratification of being right is immolated by the raw jealousy drowning him breath by breath. He hears a high, incredulous laugh leave his lips and a hollow ringing in his head. Of course she would be cheering for Weasley. He could see her right now, clear as day, scrawling his name across a crimson jersey before pulling it on and skipping to the pitch. She wanted to cheer for Weasley? Fine. Victory would feel all the sweeter when Slytherin beat Gryffindor into the ground today.

He clenches his fists and balls up the untouched scone with the rest of the wax paper. “Whatever. I don’t know what she sees in that arrogant sod,” he spits.

“Me neither,” Ominis sighs. Sebastian allows himself to relish the miniscule victory. At least one person was on his side today.

-

Imelda had the team warm up by taking a few laps about the pitch for the next half hour. They were now huddled in the locker tent with Imelda standing before a blackboard laden with the maneuvers that were already drilled into their muscle memory. Although the flap was closed for privacy, the buzz of incoming students adding to an already-packed crowd told him they’d have quite the audience. Sebastian rolled his shoulders back and ran a hand through his hair. Good. He thrived under an audience. Imelda finished explaining a last offensive tactic to the other Chasers before turning to address the whole team.

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you how important this match is. Not only for our House, but for yourselves as well. If you want to represent Slytherin at the inter-school Championships, you need to play flawlessly. Not that I expect any less on any given day, of course,” she declared. Various noises of assent filled the room. She held every gaze with undivided attention. Although he and Imelda frequently bickered, he greatly admired her ability to galvanize a crowd. Seemingly satisfied with their response, she tightened her gloves and walked to grab her broom from where it was propped against a bench.

“Good. Now let’s get out there and show those amateurs how a real team wins a quidditch match.”

A round of cheers filled the tent as the rest of the players grabbed their brooms and made final adjustments to their uniforms and gear. Sebastian heard a deafening roar before Everett Clopton’s amplified voice announced the members of the Gryffindor team. Upon hearing Weasley’s name he adjusted the strap on his left glove, deciding then and there to channel every bit of his anger and frustration into playing the best game of his life. Beside him the other Slytherin Beater, Amelia Nichols, nudged his arm. 

“Rough night, Sallow?” she asked. The scowl that seemed permanently seared onto his face at any mention of Weasley must have tipped her off. 

“Just more than ready to blow off a bit of steam,” he grumbled. She snorted and went back to adjusting her gloves. “You and me both.”

The team lined up in their usual pre-flight formation, awaiting Everett’s announcement. He mounted his broom next to Amelia and gripped the handle, hovering a few inches above the ground. He heard Clopton announce Imelda as the Slytherin captain, and they pushed off. As soon as the tent flaps dropped back into place behind them, he couldn’t help the grin that took over his face. The crowd was huge. It looked like the entire school had turned up for the match. Sebastian let the adrenaline sing through his blood as they made their lap around the stadium. Students cheered as they flew past and he let the wind whip his curls into a frenzy. Sebastian hadn’t had the chance to fly before coming to Hogwarts. Though his parents owned a few brooms, he was too young to ride when they were still alive. And buying a broom had been out of the question when he and Anne moved into Solomon’s humble one-room cottage. 

Whipping through the air hundreds of feet above the ground made him feel invincible. In control. He felt far away from any problems that sank their claws into him the second his feet touched the ground. The raw power and adrenaline from exerting control over something so dangerous was addictive. He knew he looked damn good while doing it, and it certainly helped to have an audience, especially one as large as this. 

“And bringing up the defense are Beaters Amelia Nichols and Sebastian Sallow!” Everett boomed. At that Sebastian blew an exaggerated kiss toward the Slytherin stands. Imelda turned just enough to roll her eyes at him from the front of their formation before stopping in the center of the pitch. The team drifted down as one toward Madam Kogawa and the case he knew held the bludgers and snitch. The quaffle was already in her hand, and as soon as all players were within earshot she began repeating her usual pre-game reminders. But Sebastian wasn’t listening. His eyes were scanning the section of the Gryffindor stands she always sat in. She’d chosen it during his first practice. As soon as Imelda had released them he’d flown up to meet her. She wanted to make sure he could always look to the same spot, something about making it easy for him to find her so that he could focus more on the game. But as his eyes settled on her spot he saw that it had been taken up by a few Gryffindors whose names he hadn’t bothered to learn. 

The sting of disappointment flared into white-hot fury as his gaze landed on Weasley. He looked like he’d slept like a baby the night before. He was laughing at something one of the other Chasers had said, laughing without a care in the world. Prat, he thought. He decided then and there to aim every bludger at Weasley’s stupid grinning face. His stomach lurched as he remembered Ominis’ words. ‘Making her own jersey…with his last name on it.’ 

Of course. She must’ve chosen a new spot, one where her precious Garreth could spot her. He’d probably go wild the second he saw his name written across her. Sebastian didn’t realize he’d been pinning Weasley with a death glare until Amelia prodded him with her bat. 

“You alright?” as asked. He nodded tersely and gripped his bat until his knuckles cracked.

Two could play at this game. A shrill whistle pierced the crowd’s roar and he shot into the air.

-

By the last quarter of the game both teams remained locked in a deadly tie. They’d been neck and neck at 120 points for the last half hour, and if the Gryffindor Keeper didn’t slip up at some point, their only hope of victory lay with Will catching the snitch. Sebastian cruised alongside Imelda and another Chaser, shielding them for any bludgers that may try to knock them off their warpath to the Gryffindor goalposts. He hears the telltale whistle and raises his arm instinctively, smacking the bludger away from his teammates. It hurtles back toward the Gryffindor Beater who’d sent it their way. His eyes narrowed. Weasley.

The menace had the audacity to shrug his shoulders. “No harm no foul, Sallow!” he called as he zipped away.

Sebastian gritted his teeth and scanned the skies for the second bludger. As soon as it was once again struck their way he pulled his arm back, waited until it was a hair’s breadth from striking him, and smacked it toward the Gryffindor goalpost. The opposing Keeper ducked out of the way and the bludger struck the post, where his head had been a mere moment ago. That moment was all Imelda needed to toss the quaffle through the center hoop. It flew through and the resultant ding told him they were now ahead by ten points. If they could maintain their lead for the next five minutes, victory was theirs. 

Once Imelda and the two Chasers flying behind her were clear of the goal posts he gripped his broom handle and pulled up, flying well above the other players to scope out where he was needed. His eye caught on Henry, a fifth-year Chaser, who was doing his damndest to avoid being beheaded by one of the bludgers. Amos, the second Gryffindor Beater, seemed to be targeting the boy despite the fact that the quaffle was on the other side of the pitch. Sebastian shifted all his weight forward and dove for Henry, bat gripped firmly in hand. As he descended he looked to see if Weasley was complicit in the unnecessary attack, but the ginger was across the pitch defending his teammates. He flicked his gaze back to Henry and time seemed to slow. From this angle he’d have no time to duck and the damn ball would hit him square in the chest. Sebastian didn’t have to do the math to know that he wouldn’t walk away without a few broken ribs, at the very least. Without thinking, he threw himself in front of his teammate and prepared to swing. He never got the chance to strike. 

The air was punched violently from his lungs as the bludger hit him square in the diaphragm. In the second after impact he felt like retching as his vision whited out. He couldn’t breathe. Dully, he felt himself slam back into Henry, who gave way easily as he was knocked clean off his broom. He heard the crowd gasp as the Chaser plummeted toward the ground in freefall. Forcing air into his lungs he pushed himself forward until he was shooting downward at a near vertical angle. Mere meters before Henry hit the ground Sebastian caught him with two arms around his midsection and pulled out of the dive. He landed roughly in the grass with Henry safe in his arms, and froze on the pitch, dazed. Between the pulsating pain and his spotty vision he barely noticed the game had ended until Madam Blainey was pulling his teammate from his arms. She hastily thrust a vial of wiggenweld into his arms before attending to the unconscious Chaser. He uncorked the potion and downed it, nearly vomiting at the fresh waves of pain paralyzing him with each swallow. 

His teammates landed behind him and he registered shouts as his hearing came back in full force. Above the roar of the crowd Imelda was thumping him on the back. 

“You’re a bloody madman, Sallow!” she crowed. Around him the rest of the team were congratulating him for his heroics. Although the pain was ebbing, he still felt a bit dazed from the adrenaline rush.

Amelia ran up to Sebastian, pulling him into a hug and shouting, “We won!” He returned the hug gingerly, and erupted into a coughing fit when she squeezed him fiercely. At his gasps she pulled away, apologizing profusely. 

“I’m so sorry! I nearly forgot with all the excitement! Are you alright? Do you want me to fetch another wiggenweld?” She sounded genuinely panicked enough that Sebastian grasped her gently by the shoulders. He shook his head as his coughs subsided, trying to reassure her that he was on the mend.

“I’ll be alright. Honest,” he managed between gasps. She shook her head and pushed back his sweat-slicked hair. The warmth of the gesture was not lost on him, and he froze, watching her face shift from worried to…fond? And was she blushing before? Maybe he was just imagining things, shock and all. He realized his arms were still on her shoulders as she stepped closer to him, nearly flush with his chest. He gulped. 

“That rescue was incredible. Incredible, and stupid, and brave. Are you sure you’re not a Gryffindor?” she asked, smiling coyly up at him. For the first time Sebastian realized he towered over her by at least a head. She was so close he could smell her perfume, floral and heady, with a hint of vanilla. He parted his lips to answer, but fell short as he caught sight of Weasley. He was scanning the crowd of students that had stormed the field as soon as Clopton announced Slytherin’s victory. He was searching for something, or rather, someone. His Gryffindor. The one who irrevocably held his heart and was currently wearing his name across her body. The prat didn’t even have the decency to look disappointed at his own team’s loss. Something wicked licked up his spine. He let his gaze drift back down to Amelia, who was gazing at his lips with hungry eyes. 

He felt himself crossing an invisible threshold into somewhere wicked and vengeful. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, the action hollow as some part of him registered that the color was all wrong. 

“Fancy a victory kiss?” he asked, his voice low and rasping. Her lips curled into a hungry smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

At that he threaded a hand through her hair, shut his eyes despite the voice screaming wrong wrong wrong in his head, and kissed her. Deeply. He could hear the rest of the team egging them on as the celebration raged around him, but he didn’t care. For the first time in days the jealousy burning in his chest felt stamped out. He pulled away, gasping, and Amelia giggled. Her pupils were blown wide as she swayed and caught her balance by gripping at his uniform. He was just registering the dumbstruck grin on his face when Amelia’s gaze focussed on something behind him and she giggled again. 

“Whoops,” she whispered, releasing the front of his robe. He felt someone’s gaze on his back and his spine prickled as he spun around.

She was standing a few feet away. His Gryffindor. She was frozen in shock for a moment, just a moment, before her face twisted into a mix of hurt and disbelief that tore his heart in two. She was clad in green, and he had just enough time to notice the green and silver adorning her cheeks before a tear trailed down and smudged the paint. Her name had barely left his lips before she turned and ran. His stomach dropped and the pain of being hit by the bludger paled in comparison to the guilt currently eating him alive. He caught a single glimpse of her back before she was swallowed by the crowd. On her back, in hastily sewn-on letters, was his last name.

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